


Bright Lights

by lionheartedghost



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cersei doesn’t exist, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hate to Love, Minor Original Character(s), Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-05-28 16:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheartedghost/pseuds/lionheartedghost
Summary: “Jaime Lannister. You might’ve seen me in a few movies.”“Brienne Tarth,” she shook his hand once before letting it fall. “I haven’t.”Brienne Tarth finally gets her acting break when she's cast as a detective in new crime drama 'Crowns'. What she doesn't count on is her producer's arrogant brother Jaime Lannister being cast as her partner.





	1. I. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of happened. I was thinking about writing a modern Braime actors AU, and suddenly I'd written a chapter. Thanks to the people who, when asked "what if I write this?", replied with "do it".

Thirty-five. That was how old she’d been when she’d finally, _finally_ been given her big break. Well, perhaps ‘big break’ was pushing it. She’d been virtually an unknown before she’d been cast in the pilot of ‘Crowns’, a little crime show none of them had really expected would be picked up. It was dark and gritty and frequently over-the-top, and their producer Tyrion Lannister had told them in no uncertain terms not to get their hopes up.  
  
“Pray to your respective gods we get greenlit,” he’d thrown his hands up in desperation, “but don’t hold your breath, ladies and gents. Either the bigwigs go for us or they’ve forgotten all about us by the time their buffet lunch gets wheeled in front of them.”  
  
Brienne didn’t believe in the power of fate or any of that positive thinking bullshit, and her faith in a god had always been weak, even when an aunt had taken her to church services as a child after her mother had died. She hadn’t prayed then, or even at all growing up. But every night between the end of shooting and the studio announcement, she had knelt dutifully by her bed, clasped her hands together, and shut her eyes. She had scrounged copper coins from the back of the couch, picked up pennies carelessly dropped in the street, and thrown them with a wish into the fountain at the mall. And every morning, without fail, she would speak the words aloud, just in case they caught traction somehow. _We’ll get picked up_. She might not believe in the power of the universe, but she figured it owed her all the same.  
  
By some miracle, it heard her.  
  
Were ‘we got greenlit’ parties a commonplace thing? As Brienne shifted uncomfortably in her heels and tugged at the clinging fabric of her red dress, she decided it was more likely a Tyrion Lannister thing. He had rather enthusiastically popped the cork on the first bottle of champagne earlier that evening and doused the unfortunate show-writers, drenching newly-tailored suits and tinting the air with that sticky smell. She’d kept a safe distance as the rest of the flutes were filled and smiled gratefully as one was handed along to her.  
  
She was having a hard time keeping names straight even before the addition of alcohol. They’d shot the pilot on a tight three-week schedule, but that had been months ago now. She could vaguely recall character names - Detective Hugo, Sergeant Manon, something Taylor - and she thought she remembered the names of some of the crew members, although truth be told she was reluctant to use them on the off-chance that she was horrendously wrong.  
  
“Having fun?” Brienne almost dropped her drink. She hadn’t noticed anyone approaching until the young woman next to her was already close enough to rest a friendly hand on her arm, laughing apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
“Not at all,” Brienne forced a tight-lipped smile. The face before her was kind enough, framed by long, curled auburn hair, the sort Brienne might have wished for as an awkward teenager. Glittering blue eyes crinkled as the woman flashed her a crooked grin. She looked familiar. Of course she did: it was a party for their show, this woman had clearly crossed her path at some point, but for the life of her Brienne couldn’t remember her name at all.  
  
“Margaery,” the woman supplied, so immediately that Brienne worried she’d admitted her last thought aloud. “Officer Alys Rayne.”  
  
Yes, that was it. They’d had a scene or two together, she remembered now. “Brienne. Detective Margot Spencer.”  
  
“I know.” Margaery smiled with a confidence so unshakable that Brienne didn’t doubt she knew everything and more about everyone in the room already. “You know, I’ve never been to a party as lavish as this. Not for a show that doesn’t even have an audience yet. This apartment is unbelievable, isn’t it?”  
  
It really was. Brienne had thought penthouse parties were reserved for billionaire businessmen and socialites drinking cocktails at sunset, not for someone like _her_. One wall of the apartment was a floor-to-ceiling window, and at their feet the city was illuminated in a blanket of twinkling stars. It hardly seemed real.  
  
“It’s incredible.” Brienne took a sip of her drink. She’d been nursing it for the last half hour and it had begun to warm, no longer cold enough for her to trace patterns into the condensation on the glass. “How does Tyrion afford somewhere like this? I know this isn’t his first show, but I didn’t think he was _this_ successful.”  
  
“He shares it with his brother.” Margaery grinned to herself, momentarily lost in thought. “He’s here somewhere. Haven’t you met him yet?”  
  
Brienne shook her head. Margaery was the first person she’d spoken to all evening, honestly, but she wasn’t going to readily admit that.  
  
“He’s _hot_.” Margaery mouthed the last word, exaggerating the letters as if that would render her statement incontestable. “He’s an actor too, artsy indie things mostly, but he’s had smaller roles in some of those action movies. You know, the ones with the explosions and the car chases and the basically-naked women?”  
  
“I think you just described most action movies.” Margaery threw back her head in laughter.  
  
“You’re not wrong.” Someone across the room caught her eye and she lifted her empty glass at them in lieu of a wave. She turned apologetically back to Brienne. “I should go and say hello to them. Do you want to come with me? I know it’s awkward that we haven’t seen each other in so long. I could re-introduce you?”  
  
“Oh, no, thank you,” Brienne fumbled for the words. “I’m fine here. You go ahead.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“I am, I’m sure. Thank you.”  
  
“Okay.” Margaery stood on her toes and threw her free arm around Brienne in a quick hug. Brienne, temporarily frozen by the contact, patted Margaery’s shoulder awkwardly in response. “I’ll see you soon. I’m really looking forward to working with you, Brienne.”  
  
“You too.” Margaery gave her a final squeeze before releasing her, heels clicking against the wooden flooring as she crossed the room to join a huddle of beautiful women.  
  
Brienne drained the last of her lukewarm champagne and held her glass out willingly to the man who sprang forward to refill it for her. The glass cooled again beneath her fingers, water droplets trickling down her wrist. A pop song she didn’t know was just audible beneath the humming of scattered chatter, synchronised laughs, gasps so perfect they had to be exaggerated. She could join them, any one of them. If she were lucky and if the show found its niche she could be working with some of them for years to come; it was probably wise to make friends now, regardless of the deep-set nerves that twisted in her stomach. She was an _actor_ , an official, television-appearing, sustainable-pay-cheque-receiving, genuine actor: surely she could fake being comfortable around these strangers for long enough to somehow form a bond with them?  
  
She took a nervous step towards them. Another. She managed an extra step before her resolve faltered.  
  
Before anyone could notice that she’d attempted to join the fringes of conversation, she raised her champagne flute to her lips and headed for the window.  
  
The breath hitched in her throat as she pressed herself as close to the glass as she could, as she once had as a curious child at the zoo. Only, she’d been on the outside then, looking in at the creatures before her. As she stared out across the city, at the black expanse in the distance she knew was the ocean, it seemed to her that she was the creature this time, gazing out at the world. Tiny white sparks far below marked out the cars along the freeway, no doubt passing by in a blur from the ground, but crawling along like ants from up here. Orange flickered on and off throughout the city as households went to bed, as others returned home from evenings with friends. The world at her feet was an orchestra of light. So many lives, so many people she would pass in the street or sit next to on the bus or perhaps never know at all.  
  
“Beautiful.” The voice was a murmur in her ear, low and steady, enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the stem of her glass.  
  
“I’m sorry?” She wheeled around to face the speaker, an eyebrow already raised in irritation at their disregard for personal boundaries. Her prepared beratement died on her tongue.  
  
“The view.” The man seemed unperturbed by the edge in her voice a moment before. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”  
  
Brienne forced herself to meet his eyes - green, so green, the colour of fairytale forests, of painted meadows - and to not, _not_ trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw.  
  
“You must think so too,” he continued, “unless there’s another reason why you’re standing all alone at an otherwise excellent party.”  
  
What was he insinuating? That nobody would talk to her? That she’d been exiled to the outskirts like a pariah? “I don’t need to explain my actions to a man who believes sneaking up on strangers is an acceptable way to start a conversation,” she replied coolly.  
  
His lips quirked into a smirk. “If you say so. I only wanted to check that the guests in my apartment were having a good time, but forgive me for being so unbearably hospitable.”  
  
_My apartment_. “You’re the brother?” Looking at his face, it definitely made sense, given what Margaery had said about him. Not that she would ever repeat that to the arrogant man in front of her, of course. He was dripping with hubris as it was.  
  
“I am ‘the brother’,” he crooked his fingers into quotation marks before extending a hand, eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Jaime Lannister. You might’ve seen me in a few movies.”  
  
“Brienne Tarth,” she shook his hand once before letting it fall. “I haven’t.”  
  
To his credit, Jaime’s smirk only grew. “I can’t say I’ve seen you in anything either. Are you production crew?”  
  
“I’m an actor.” She couldn’t resist raising her chin with pride as she said the words aloud. “This is my first screen role.”  
  
“Hm.” He made no attempt to disguise his scrutiny of her face, of her body, his eyes following the shape of her dress to the floor before lifting again. She curled her lip. “Well, Brienne Tarth, I hope you’re good enough. My brother’s rather fond of this show already. I’d hate to see it brought down before it even takes off.”  
  
“I shouldn’t think we’ll have any issue. The cast are very talented and the crew are incredibly professional.” She could hardly pick out the cast from the crew in this room, but he didn’t need to know that. “And your brother is a very talented man. Committed. Humble.”  
  
Jaime snorted. “My brother is about as far from humble as any man could be.”  
  
“Perhaps not any man,” she fired back. The smirk on his face twisted into a look of bemusement. A grin she almost took for respect twitched briefly into place.  
  
“Well, Ms. Tarth,” he enunciated her name carefully, “I’ll take my ego elsewhere. All the best with your acting career.” He flashed her a smile, doubtless the one he reserved for film premieres and photoshoots, and swept across the room. She watched him clap his brother on the shoulder, laugh at a joke. He glanced across at her suddenly; she looked away, her cheeks beginning to pinken as she turned back to the window. She could see him reflected in the glass. He held his stare with a look that she couldn’t quite decipher. Someone turned the lights up then, and the shape of him became nothing more than a ghostly outline.  
  
She’d been considering finding a quiet corner to call for a taxi when Tyrion climbed onto a table that probably cost more than her entire apartment. He pounded his feet against the wooden surface until he had the attention of the room; on the ground to his left, she saw Jaime attempting to smother a grimace.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen!” He wobbled from one foot to the other as he raised his arms in exultation. “We. Are. Picked. Up!”  
  
A chorus of inebriated cheers answered him.  
  
“Writers!” He pointed vaguely in their direction. “You’re _geniuses_. Production!” More questionable pointing. “Fantastic job. Cast!” He waved a hand wildly at them all. “You’re all really fucking good.”  
  
There were more answering cheers as the room revelled in praise. Brienne smiled.  
  
“Now,” Tyrion’s voice, if not the rest of him, became sober. “Due to scheduling commitments, Tormund… whatever his name was is no longer available to be our Detective Roberts. Looks like he didn’t have any faith in our little show and found himself another part. Good fucking riddance, I say.”  
  
Brienne knew that name. Tormund had been in most of her scenes; his character and hers were partners. He’d been perfectly adequate to work alongside, civil enough between takes, if a little odd, but she wasn’t sure she’d miss him that much.  
  
“But the magic of pilot episodes,” Tyrion continued, a glint in his green eyes, “is that we can recast whoever we want and nobody gives a shit. I’ve already found just the man.”  
  
A horrible realisation crept over Brienne even before Tyrion said the words.  
  
“My brother has kindly agreed to come down from his Hollywood cloud and join us on our little show.”  
  
Jaime Lannister was joining their cast. Not only that, Jaime Lannister was joining their cast _as her partner_. Brienne clenched her jaw. Whatever else Tyrion was saying washed over her, an indistinguishable buzz.  
  
Jaime caught her eye. His perfect smile was fixed into place, but she could see how the corners of his lips tugged into the smirk he’d given her earlier. Had he known when he’d spoken to her who she was, who she played? Or had his brother pointed her out to him since then? That must have been why he’d looked back at her.  
  
She looked away from him pointedly, fixing her gaze on Tyrion’s continued speech even though the words meant little to her. This was her first role. This was her big break. Jaime fucking Lannister would _not_ ruin this for her.


	2. II. Talent to Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took his sunglasses off and handed them without looking to a waiting assistant. He narrowed his eyes at Brienne, his grin growing crooked. “Hello again. Am I allowed to talk to you this time or is it arrogant of me to dare to attempt civility?”  
> “Do you know _how_ to be civil?” She returned.  
> Jaime shrugged. “The thing is, Ms. Tarth, I’m an _actor_. I can pretend to be civil when I need to be.”  
> “Then I hate to be the one to tell you, Mr. Lannister, but you aren’t as talented as you think you are.”
> 
> It's the first proper day of shooting. Brienne's new assistant Podrick Payne is as well-meaning as he is hopeless, and Jaime Lannister is still as arrogant as he was the night she met him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who said they enjoyed the first chapter! This fic is a lot of fun to write. 
> 
> Quick disclaimer: I know nothing about actual film-sets. My knowledge is based entirely from what I've seen on TV and what I can find by looking it up. I'm doing my best but I'm sure there'll be inaccuracies somewhere along the line.

II. Talent to Set  
  
She had a trailer. She gaped wide-eyed at the paper tacked into the window, her name printed in bold type. Brienne Tarth. She read it over and over again until the letters seemed to float in the air in front of her; even then she felt like a trespasser as she climbed the step and pushed open the door.  
  
It was hardly a palace: she could walk from one end to the other in as little as four strides. She could practically reach the opposite wall from the tired terracotta-coloured couch. There was a television in the corner so small that the microwave on the counter was almost bigger. None of that mattered. _She had a trailer._ And it was _all hers_. She sank onto the couch with a dazed laugh and closed her eyes.  
  
There was a rap at the door, so timid that at first she took it for the trailer settling. It wasn’t until the second tapping noise that she opened her eyes, head turned towards the sound. It took another gentle rapping against the plastic before she recognised the sound as someone knocking, so quietly that Brienne wondered if they were more afraid of being heard than not. She forced herself back to her feet and took the one stride necessary to reach the doorway.  
  
She opened the door halfway and blinked. “Can I help you?”  
  
“I’m your assistant, ma’am.” The boy wrung his hands nervously as he looked up at her. “Podrick Payne.”  
  
“Please don’t call me ma’am,” her mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Ma’am’ made her feel like a middle-aged woman, and she wasn’t _that_ old. Although, the boy in front of her only looked to be in his early twenties. Maybe he thought she _was_ that old?  
  
“Sorry.” Apologetic brown eyes widened anxiously. “Um, what should I call you instead?”  
  
“Brienne is fine.” She glanced over her shoulder. Should she invite him in? Was that how this worked?  
  
“Brienne,” he repeated. “Is there anything I can do for you, Brienne?”  
  
It was her turn to become tongue-tied. What did she need with an assistant? She wasn’t a movie star with masses of fan-mail that needed to be sorted. She wasn’t someone with hundreds of pending audition invitations that needed to be assessed and politely declined. Should she send the boy away? But he was still looking up at her like a confused puppy, keen to be of service but unsure how to make himself useful.  
  
“I…” she racked her brain for something, _anything_ she could give him to do. “Maybe a coffee?”  
  
“Right away!” He grinned at her and disappeared through a maze of trailers before she could even think of what sort of coffee to ask him for. She tapped her fingers against the wall with a sigh and slowly pushed the door closed.  
  


*

Brienne tried not to grimace as she drank another mouthful of coffee. Podrick’s first attempt at guessing her order had had too much milk and not enough sugar, and her effort to gently prod him in the right direction for his second run had somewhat backfired. He’d somehow succeeded in making it extraordinarily bitter _and_ disgustingly sweet, but he’d looked so nervously at her as he’d handed her the paper cup that she’d had to pretend it was perfect.

She set the cup down on a nearby table and took out the script she’d tucked under her arm. It was folded open to the scene they were shooting, and her lines had been neatly highlighted in green. She glanced around, suddenly self-conscious, shielding the page from view. Was that something proper television actors did, highlighting their lines? It had been a habit of hers since Shakespeare plays in school, but now the stark lines of colour seemed childish.

“Brienne!” Brienne stiffened in anticipation of the hug she knew was headed her way. Margaery hurried over to her and threw her arms around Brienne’s neck. She drew back and shook Brienne’s arm, beaming from ear to ear. “First day! Are-” She caught sight of the abandoned coffee cup. “Is that going spare?”

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Brienne’s eyes flickered around the room; Podrick was nowhere to be seen.

Margaery nodded sagely. “New assistant?”

“He… He means well.”

“He’ll find his feet.” Margaery glanced at the script in Brienne’s hand and smiled conspiratorially. ‘So, how are you feeling?”

“About shooting?”

“Not just _shooting_ ,” Margaery lowered her voice to a whisper and leant in closer, “shooting with _Jaime_.”

Jaime Lannister. In truth, she’d been trying her best to forget about that part of it. She’d learnt her lines while vehemently _not_ thinking about the man she would have to deliver them to, the face who would share her scenes, the arrogant smirk he would give her, his perfect teeth sparkling white.

“He’s just another actor,” she shrugged, pretending to read through her lines once more.

“Just another actor?” Margaery repeated incredulously. “I’m sorry, have you seen his face? You _must_ have noticed how attractive he is.”

“ _He_ certainly has.”

Margaery snorted a laugh. She caught sight of something to Brienne’s left and schooled her face into an innocuous expression. “Speak of the devil. Don’t look, he’s just come in.”

Brienne ignored her, twisting to watch as Jaime Lannister sauntered onto set. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses, and she doubted that the coffee in his hand was anything other than his order to a T. He was dressed in his costume, the fake detective uniform remarkably similar to her own, but he carried himself more like a model readying for a photoshoot.

“I said don’t look!” Margaery tugged at her arm, but Jaime had already spotted her. He fixed that ridiculous smirk into place and walked over to them as though his very existence were a gift.

“Ladies.” His grin was for both of them, but his eyes darted to Brienne. “Good morning.”

Margaery watched him closely, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Good morning, Jaime.”

Brienne wished she still had her coffee in hand. It might have tasted vile, but at least taking a sip of it would give her an excuse not to look at his face.

“I actually need to go over there,” Margaery rested a hand on Brienne’s arm to draw her attention. There was a dangerous glint in her blue eyes, the corners of her mouth tugging her smile into something cunning. Brienne gaped at her.

“What?” _For the love of all things holy, don’t leave me alone with this man and his ego_.

“I’ll see you later.” _You’re welcome_. Margaery left her with a touch on her elbow. Brienne watched hopelessly as Margaery integrated herself in a little huddle on the other side of set, slipping into their conversation seamlessly. With a sigh, she turned back to Jaime.

He took his sunglasses off and handed them without looking to a waiting assistant. He narrowed his eyes at Brienne, his grin growing crooked. “Hello again. Am I allowed to talk to you this time or is it arrogant of me to dare to attempt civility?”

“Do you know _how_ to be civil?” She returned.

Jaime shrugged. “The thing is, Ms. Tarth, I’m an _actor_. I can pretend to be civil when I need to be.”

“Then I hate to be the one to tell you, Mr. Lannister, but you aren’t as talented as you think you are.”

“Oh really?” Jaime raised his eyebrows. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Marks, people!’ From his chair beside the camera, their director clapped his hands together. Tyrion Lannister hovered behind him, arms folded across his chest. “Let’s try not to fall behind schedule before we’ve even started.”

Brienne dropped her script onto the table beside her half-full coffee cup. The highlighter shone through the page, thick marked stripes distinguishing raised lettering.

Jaime smirked. “I hope you know your lines, Ms. Tarth.” He brushed past her, pausing en route to his mark to murmur something in his brother’s ear. Brienne gritted her teeth. She knew her lines. All she had to do now was find a way to say them alongside Jaime Lannister as if he wasn’t the last person she wanted to be in a room with.

_I can pretend to be civil when I need to be_. Two could play at that game, Lannister.

It was hardly a complicated scene: Jaime had a case file to read aloud from; she had to suggest they investigate a lead; he had to agree. Although, come to think of it, it probably took every ounce of the talent he thought he had for him to even pretend to agree with her on something. But as they went through the same seventy-second scene, over and over and over, then again with the camera to the left, then again with the camera to the right, the lighting adjusted, the extras moved around, she had to give it to him: he was, at least, annoyingly consistent.

“First role,” he smiled patronisingly as they paused for a break somewhere around the eighth minor camera adjustment. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

She clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to fire back something equally condescending. He was trying to goad her into a response; she could see that from the look on his face. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him under her skin. She cleared her mind. Took a breath. He’d said she’d get the hang of it, and he was right. The rest of her takes were faultless.

Podrick was ready with a coffee at the side of the set when wrap was finally called for the day. She tried not to shudder at the memory of the sickeningly sugary burnt taste. Maybe she could ask him to bring the milk and sugar back with him next time? Would he be offended? Or maybe she could pretend she’d sworn off coffee as part of a weird new diet. Would he believe that? Maybe she could find a way to avoid him, get her own coffee. Would it be extreme to hoard it in her trailer and heat it in the microwave? Who was she kidding, of course it would be.

“Ms. Tarth.” She was too lost in thought to notice the voice calling behind her. She should just tell Podrick he had yet to get her order right, shouldn’t she? She was a grown woman. He was an assistant. He would understand. Or maybe he’d look at her with those puppy eyes and she’d feel awful for not appreciating the taste of sugary tar. “Ms. Tarth!”

Jaime appeared at her side just as she reached Podrick. She took the coffee cup with a brief smile as Jaime’s assistant, hurrying to match their stride, handed him back his sunglasses.

“Can I get you anything else, ma’am? Sorry, Brienne?” One look at Podrick’s hopeful, wide-eyed expression, and she knew that she wasn’t the sort of person who could tell him he was doing anything other than a great job. Maybe she could learn to like coffee this way. Or maybe she could pour it out into the grass once his back was turned.

“I think I’m okay, Podrick. But thank you.”

“Okay,” he beamed. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning!”

She hummed in reply, but he’d already crossed the set to hold the double doors open for the crew members wheeling cameras away.

“He seems like a nice lad,” Jaime commented, slipping his sunglasses on one-handed. “Must be new. It won’t last.”

“Maybe some people are just naturally pleasant,” she replied through her teeth.

Jaime laughed. “Unlike me, you mean?”

She ignored him.

“I was just coming to tell you that you weren’t terrible in those last few takes. You were perfectly adequate. For a newbie.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for that ringing endorsement?” She glanced at him for long enough to see the smirk she was beginning to know all too well.

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you’d hate to develop any sense of an ego. You know, in case it made you too similar to one particular confident, critically-acclaimed, incredibly experienced member of our profession.”

“Not at all. If I happen to see them, I’ll ask them for pointers.”

“Ms. Tarth,” Jaime clutched at his chest, “you do know how to hurt a man.” He stepped in front of her to open the side-door, bowing his head mockingly as he waved her through.

Metal barriers had been set up to their right. Under the watchful eye of two security men, a crowd clutching magazines and notebooks and loose sheets of paper perked up at the sight of them. Or, rather, the sight of _him_.

“Jaime!” His name, repeated dozens of times in dozens of voices, rose as a cacophony. “Jaime!”

“Duty calls, Ms. Tarth.” He raised his sunglasses for just long enough to wink at her. He pushed them back into place, adopted his trademark red carpet grin, and sauntered over to his adoring fans.

Brienne paused by the door to watch him. God, he must be loving this. People waving pictures of his face for him to scrawl his signature over in borrowed black sharpie? It must be his vanity-induced dreamland made real. No wonder he was so unbearably full of himself, if people were prepared to wait for hours just to get a glimpse of that ridiculous smile. She watched him relish the attention, ducking in for selfies, sharing easy laughs and shaking extended hands. What she hadn’t expected was the polite conversation she could see him making, how he leant in to hear stuttered answers to simple questions. Maybe… maybe it was more than just an ego boost for him after all.

They loved him, and as much as she wanted to hate him for that, to begrudge him indulging in it, she could see why they did. He took off his sunglasses and handed them to a girl who promptly burst into tears, and Brienne couldn’t quite stop the hint of a smile that tugged at one corner of her mouth. Jaime looked back suddenly as if someone had called his name; she turned away as if she hadn’t seen him, took a sip of her disgusting coffee, and started back towards her trailer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapter coming soon!


	3. III. Once More With Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The only thing between Ms. Tarth and myself,” he turned back to Tyrion, “is mutual dislike.” He took a bite of apple, still grinning. “That’s funny though.”  
> Tyrion narrowed his eyes skeptically, one corner of his mouth tugging into an unconvinced smile. “What was that line? ‘My only love sprung from my only hate’?”  
> “I never said ‘hate',” Jaime corrected. He paused. “And _nobody_ is saying ‘love’.
> 
> Jaime is absolutely positively _not_ in love with Brienne Tarth, no matter what his brother and the writers might think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented to say they were enjoying this fic, and thanks to everyone who liked it enough to read as far as chapter 3! I'm having a lot of fun writing it and I'm glad other people like it too!

III. Once More With Feeling  
  
The sharp blaring of his alarm broke through the depths of sleep. Jaime screwed up his face and buried his head beneath the pillow, throwing out his arm to search the bedside table blindly until his fingers brushed against his phone. He found the button and the bleeping sound finally relented, plunging the room back into blissful silence. It didn’t matter, though; the noise still rang in his ears, shrill and incessant and disgustingly early. He forced himself out from under the pillow and squinted through the darkness at the blinding glow of his phone screen. 5:30. God.  
  
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet finding the carpeted floor. Jaime scrubbed a hand down the side of his face and paused, contemplating the stubble that prickled against his skin. He could get away with looking a little rugged. It suited him, even, more than the fresh-faced, long-haired pretty boy look of his youth.  
  
He crossed the room and opened the closet, surveying the contents as he stifled a yawn. Yes, he’d change into his costume as soon as he was done in make-up, and it wasn’t like he was dressing for an important lunch or an interview or a premiere, but the paparazzi lurking outside his apartment and at the studio entrance would plaster his picture across the front page for weeks to come if he walked past them with a single hair out of place. He pulled on clean jeans and a white shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded at himself in the mirror. Not bad.  
  
Tyrion was already sat at the kitchen counter. He had a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling intently. He glanced up at Jaime and nodded towards the pot of coffee behind him. “It’s fresh.”  
  
Jaime grunted in thanks as he filled a mug of his own. “What are you reading?”  
  
“YouTube comments.”  
  
Jaime grimaced. “Rule number one, little brother: _never_ read the YouTube comments.”  
  
“The promo trailer went up last night. If we need a marketing boost, I’d rather know now than before some exec cancels us four episodes in.”  
  
“They won’t cancel us.” Jaime put his coffee down and climbed onto the stool opposite his brother. “It’s a nice little show.”  
  
“‘Nice’?” Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going for ‘nice’, Jaime.”  
  
“Not nice like cartoons and puppies,” Jaime rolled his eyes. “I meant nice as in it’s a good show, Tyrion. Dark and dramatic but not too weird. People love that shit.”  
  
Tyrion snorted a laugh and took another sip of coffee. He set his phone down on the counter and regarded Jaime hesitantly. “You think we’ll do alright?”  
  
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t let both our pay cheques be dependent on it.” He smirked. “This is a really nice apartment. I wouldn’t do anything to risk losing it.”  
  
“You’re smarter than people give you credit for.”  
  
“I’m not just a pretty face, even if that is the only reason you hired me.”  
  
“I hired you because you know what you’re doing.” Tyrion tapped his fingers against the black granite surface of the countertop. “What do you think of the rest of them?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“The rest of the cast. What do you think?”  
  
Jaime swirled the coffee around in his mug thoughtfully. “I don’t know most of them well enough to comment.” It was the truth. He might’ve shared a scene with the majority of them at one time or another, but he rarely had more than a line or two to say to them. “That Margaery girl is good. You should give her more to do.”  
  
“She’s promising,” Tyrion nodded in agreement. “What about Brienne?”  
  
“What about her?” Jaime drained his mug and set it down on the counter with more force than was necessary. The china clinked against the worktop.  
  
“She’s good, isn’t she? Oberyn wasn’t sure about hiring a newbie as a lead, but I told him I had a good feeling about her. She’s keeping up with you, anyway.”  
  
Maybe she was. She was certainly just as quick as him off-camera, countering every teasing comment he made, cutting him down so bluntly it impressed him more than anything. No doubt she’d roll her eyes if she knew his ego was so impervious to harm that she hadn’t even bruised it. She was the first person in a long while who hadn’t fawned at his feet or melted at his grin. In all honesty, he quite enjoyed how much she loathed him.  
  
And, in fairness, she wasn’t a bad actor at all. The suspicion would disappear from her eyes and the grimace would vanish from her face, and sometimes he would even forget how much she hated him. It wasn’t as if they’d had any scenes that required much emotion so far, but from what he’d seen? Tyrion was right. She was good. Not that he could _tell_ her that, of course: she’d think he was mocking her, and then she’d get all self-conscious and sensitive about it and ruin their scenes for the both of them.  
  
“I’ve acted with worse.” Jaime stepped down from the stool and wandered over to the fruit bowl, picking up an apple and pretending to study it closely.  
  
“You’re good on-screen together. I watched the footage back. It’s like there’s a little spark of… _something_ between the two of you.”  
  
Jaime threw back his head and laughed.  
  
“I’m serious.” Jaime could feel his brother’s curious eyes boring holes into the back of his head. “Oberyn agrees with me. The writers are keen to do something with it.”  
  
“The only thing between Ms. Tarth and myself,” he turned back to Tyrion, “is mutual dislike.” He took a bite of apple, still grinning. “That’s funny though.”  
  
Tyrion narrowed his eyes skeptically, one corner of his mouth tugging into an unconvinced smile. “What was that line? ‘My only love sprung from my only hate’?”  
  
“I never said ‘hate',” Jaime corrected. He paused. “And _nobody_ is saying ‘love’. That’s not on the table. You tell the writers they can do what they want and I’ll make it convincing, and it won’t be because anyone’s in love, but because I’m a _good fucking actor_. Do you know how many women I would’ve dated if I’d gone after everyone I looked good on screen next to? How many men, even? I can’t help being naturally charismatic, Tyrion. Just how you can’t help stirring shit up, apparently.”  
  
“You’re very defensive about this.”  
  
“I’m not defensive about anything.” Jaime bit into the apple again and dropped the rest into the garbage.  
  
“Where are you going?” Tyrion called as Jaime walked away.  
  
“I’m going to finish getting ready and then I’m going to set, because I’m a _professional_ , and I don’t plan to sit here all day gossiping.”  
  
Tyrion threw up a middle finger in response. Jaime smirked.

*

“And then you interrupt her and say ‘there’s nothing there. This case is a dead end’,” his assistant read, the script open on the table in front of her. Jaime’s eyes were closed as he looped the words in his head.

“There’s nothing there,” he muttered to himself. “This case is a dead end.”

“Then Detective Spencer is furious, and she says ‘I won’t give up on her’, and you’re furious too and you say ‘maybe you should’.”

“Maybe you should,” Jaime repeated under his breath. He opened his eyes and flashed a grin at her. “Thanks, Jeyne.”

She returned his grin with a hesitant smile. “It’s no problem, Mr. Lannister. I don’t mean to boss you around but you’ll be late to set if you don’t go now.”

“Of course.” He stood up from the couch and stretched his arms above his head, clicking his joints. “Who’s directing this one? Martell?”

“Mmhm.” Jeyne folded his script back over and tucked it under her arm, handing him his sunglasses.

“Better not keep him waiting.” Jaime put his sunglasses on and studied himself in the mirror on the wall, combing his hair with his fingers. “You never hear the end of it when you piss him off.”

He was barely late, as it happened, but that did little to temper the exasperated look Oberyn fired his way. Jaime gave him his best charming smile as he handed Jeyne his sunglasses and weaved through the production crew to his mark. Brienne Tarth watched him take his place beside her, her lip curling as if she’d just noticed a bad smell. He smirked, just for her.

“Good morning, Ms. Tarth,” he murmured.

“Mr. Lannister.” Her voice was cool, politely distant.

“Big scene today.” He glanced at her; her face was unreadable. “Real acting at last. You ready for it?”

She met his gaze with a look steely enough to make the hairs on his arms stand on end. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“Just stick with me,” he winked. “Give it a go. I’ll carry the rest.”

She ignored him.

“Okay!” From his seat in the director’s chair, Oberyn clapped his hands together above his head. “Ready? Sound? Marker? Good. Scene twenty-three, take one. And… action!”

“Officer Reyne followed up with the friends but no-one’s seen that girl since the night she disappeared.” Brienne transformed so suddenly into her character that it almost threw him. _Almost_. He’d been in this game too long to miss his cue.

She followed him over to the desk, hovering beside him as he rested his hands on the desktop and frowned down at an open file. “I could’ve told you that.”

“I still think we should interview the boyfriend again, push him a little harder-”

“There’s nothing there,” he barely looked at her. “This case is a dead end.”

She grabbed his shoulder and spun him round to face her, so abruptly that he clutched at her arm to steady himself. “I won’t give up on her!”

“Maybe you should!” He could feel her breath against his skin. They were almost nose to nose, inches apart, and suddenly he was transfixed by the blue of her eyes. He’d been so sure that sapphire blue eyes were nothing but a cliché, but here they were now, staring back at him as dazzling as the sea, and her lips were right in front of his, so close that he could imagine pressing his to hers, could practically feel it-

“Cut!” Brienne’s hand fell away from his shoulder. He uncurled his fingers from her arm and took a step back, clearing his throat.

“Not bad,” he said. His lips quirked into a half-smirk; he couldn’t quite muster up a full, teasing grin.

“Perfect, guys,” Oberyn called. “Fucking in _credible_. Don’t change a thing.” He turned back to the production crew, circling his index finger at them impatiently. “Reset! Let’s go again!”

“Not bad yourself,” Brienne replied. She lingered on his face for a moment; he stared back, waiting for her to say something else. She didn’t. He followed her back to their marks, biting down hard on his tongue and trying to ignore the feeling in his chest.

Don’t change a thing. Exactly the same again. The same anger in her voice, the same frustration in his. The same grip on his shoulder. Clinging to her for stability. Their faces nearly touching. Their lips…

_Do you know how many women I would’ve dated if I’d gone after everyone I looked good on screen next to_? _I can’t help being naturally charismatic, Tyrion_.

He was a good actor. And maybe Ms. Tarth was a better actor than he’d given her credit for. That was all it was. There was nothing more to it than that. Nothing at all.

“Scene twenty-three, take two,” Oberyn’s voice rang clear. Jaime took a breath, steeled himself, and raised his chin. _Just like before_. “Action!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My only love sprung from my only hate" is from Romeo and Juliet, Act I Scene V.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapter coming soon!


	4. IV. Will They/Won't They

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was someone’s idea of a joke. Jaime Lannister’s, probably. He definitely thought he was God’s gift to women. No, this was a mistake, no question about it...She blinked again, as if that might erase the words. They were still there, three lines printed in italics, black against the gleaming white of the paper.
> 
> _Spencer gingerly rests her hand over Roberts’. He looks at it, looks at her, unsure of the touch but even less willing to pull away._  
>  _Spencer looks at him with something unsaid in her eyes. She moves her hand away and leaves the room without looking back._  
>  _Roberts stares after her, even once she’s out of his sight._
> 
>   
> Brienne isn't convinced a relationship between her character and Jaime Lannister's will make any sense: for one thing, any decent HR would never allow it. Tyrion Lannister is amused. Jaime is determined to show he doesn't care. Everything's about to step up a notch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If you're reading this, thanks for sticking with me this far! Everything is starting to click plotwise for me now, so this chapter is things beginning to fall into place. I hope you enjoy!

IV. Will They/Won’t They

Brienne blinked down at the script in front of her. She brushed a fingertip against the page, half expecting to come away with wet ink staining her skin, some sure-fire indication that the scene had been tampered with before it found its way to her. This was someone’s idea of a joke. Jaime Lannister’s, probably. He definitely thought he was God’s gift to women. No, this was a mistake, no question about it. Someone had probably intercepted Podrick en route back to her trailer, told him there were a few last-minute edits that needed to be scrawled in, and he would no doubt have handed the script over without hesitation. He was still wide-eyed and desperate to please even three months into shooting. Maybe she should have a gentle word with him about being too trusting.  
  
She blinked again, as if that might erase the words. They were still there, three lines printed in italics, black against the gleaming white of the paper.

_Spencer gingerly rests her hand over Roberts’. He looks at it, looks at her, unsure of the touch but even less willing to pull away._  
  
_Spencer looks at him with something unsaid in her eyes. She moves her hand away and leaves the room without looking back._  
  
_Roberts stares after her, even once she’s out of his sight._

  
Where had _that_ come from? It didn’t make any sense. They were playing partners, _work_ partners, nothing else. Surely there were rules about that in real life? No, it would never happen: the writers wouldn’t run with something so inaccurate, and even if they did they wouldn’t do it with her and Jaime Lannister, of all people.

Her phone buzzed on the table beside her. She glanced apprehensively at the screen, shoulders sagging in relief as she read Margaery’s name there. Margaery would tell her how the scene really went.

“Brienne!” Margaery, Brienne had discovered, tended not to waste time waiting for a ‘hello’. “Have you read the next episode yet?”

“I just did.” Brienne glanced down at it. “I actually-”

“I’m _so_ excited for you!” Brienne could almost see her smile. “I know they’re only setting it up right now to see how the audience reacts but I was there when you did _that_ scene and I swear I could feel the chemistry in the air. It was like there was real electricity between you two.”

“I...” Brienne’s mind reeled as she struggled to keep up. The scene was in Margaery’s script too? But that would mean it was real, that it was part of the show. “I... what scene?”

“Sorry?”

“What scene are you talking about? Jaime Lannister and I haven’t had any scenes with...” she shook her head, plucking Margaery’s word from the air, “ _electricity_.”

Margaery gave a laugh; it died away quickly when she realised Brienne wasn’t laughing too. “Are you serious? You didn’t feel it? That scene in episode three where you argue about the missing girl. I honestly thought you were going to kiss if Oberyn didn’t call cut.”

Ah. _That_ scene. She remembered. He’d riled her up about real acting, told her not to worry, that he’d do the heavy lifting. She’d wanted to wipe that smug smirk off his perfect face, so she’d stepped it up, thrown herself into the moment. It had wiped the smirk off his face, all right. She knew, because every time the scene ended she’d been inches from his lips. He’d looked almost startled; she’d put that down to his constant insistence that she was mediocre at best. And as far as chemistry went... they were professionals, that was all. They were doing their job. Making it believable.

“We weren’t going to kiss.” Brienne drummed the fingers of her left hand against the table, trying not to remember how close his face had been to hers. “There’s nothing between us. Honest. I don’t even think this story will work, really.”

Margaery’s voice rose in protestation, but Brienne barely heard the words. It wouldn’t work. She wouldn’t be doing her duty to the show if she didn’t raise her concerns before it was too late.

“I need to go,” Brienne broke through Margaery’s insistent disagreement. “I’ll see you on set.” She ended the call oblivious to Margaery’s confusion, already swiping through her newly-expanded list of contacts until she reached ‘T’.

She’d never actually phoned Tyrion Lannister before. She’d saved the number after he’d called to congratulate her on her audition, just so she could be sure she wouldn’t accidentally ignore any call with his name on it. Did anybody actually call him? No, of course they did, she was being ridiculous. She should call him. If Jaime Lannister had a concern about one of his indie films he’d be on the phone to his director without thinking.

She tapped his name and lifted the phone to her ear, her chest suddenly tight with nerves. The phone rang, then rang again, then rang once more. She’d almost given up hope when there was a click, and a voice thick with suspicion answered.

“Hello?”

“Tyrion?” Brienne coughed to clear the rasp in her throat. “Hi, it’s Brienne? Brienne Tarth-”

“Oh!” There was a pause; Brienne chewed her lip. “Of course. What can I do for you, Brienne?”

“I...” Brienne tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling of her trailer as she willed herself to go on. “I just read the script for episode seven.”

Another pause followed. “Okay. And you had... thoughts?”

Brienne gritted her teeth, screwing her eyes shut in embarrassment. This was a mistake. Well, she’d come this far. “It’s just... there’s a scene towards the end of the episode where it looks like my character and... and your brother’s character are being set up.”

“Ah, yes.” There was something new in his voice, something Brienne couldn’t quite place. “The writers thought it would be a shame to let that chemistry go to waste.”

Why did everyone think she and Jaime Lannister had chemistry? There was no-one whose company she enjoyed less. “The thing is, I wasn’t sure how realistic that would be. I mean, wouldn’t there be rules against partners being in a relationship?”

“I don’t doubt it. But the thing is, Brienne, it doesn’t matter. We’re not making a documentary. The people who watch our show don’t want _real life_ , because real life is shit. They want something that feels real without all the hang-ups, and that includes letting their favourite TV detectives be together. If it doesn’t work well on camera we’ll ditch the whole storyline, but I think we’re onto a winner here.”

Of course. It made sense, she knew it did, but she could still feel her heart sinking. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Brienne, I’m wondering if it isn’t so much the verisimilitude of the relationship that you’re concerned with, but perhaps the actor playing your other half.”

Brienne felt her face begin to redden. “Not at all. If your brother is happy to do the scenes then I am too.”

“My brother,” Tyrion repeated with a hum, “knows how to charm people just as well as he knows how to press people’s buttons. I know he likes to give rather backhanded compliments, but I promise you Jaime thinks you’re talented. If he thought you were anything less than excellent he’d have complained to me by now.”

 _I don’t need your brother’s approval to do my job_ , she thought, but she bit back the comment. “Is he on board with… with this?”

“Honestly, I doubt he’s read the script yet. But he will be.” That was right. She’d heard someone say he never properly read through his scenes until the day of filming, when he’d go into his trailer and emerge an hour later with it all meticulously stored in his mind. What was it like to have such faith in yourself that you left something as important as _that_ to the last minute?

“Okay,” she said at last, looking disdainfully down at the script again. “Thanks.”

“Not at all. I’ll catch up with you next time I’m on set.”

“Alright. Thanks again.” In true Hollywood style, Tyrion hung up without a goodbye. Brienne set the phone down and stared at it. The script was real. The storyline was happening. God help her.

*

Jaime could feel eyes boring into his head over dinner. “Something to say, little brother?”

Tyrion speared another piece of food onto his fork and chewed thoughtfully. “Brienne Tarth called me today.”

Jaime tried not to react at the sound of her name. “What did she want?”

“Have you been through the next script yet?”

Jaime shook his head. He’d glanced at it when it had arrived, but Jeyne hadn’t been around to go over the lines with him. “She didn’t like something she read?”

“The writers are moving ahead with the whole 'setting you guys up’ thing.” Jaime pretended not to notice the way his brother’s eyes narrowed as he waited for a reaction. “Brienne was concerned about how realistic it was.”

Jaime’s lips quirked into a smile. Ms. Tarth thought herself too professional to object to a storyline on the grounds that she couldn’t stand him, but she’d have no qualms over defending the integrity of the show. Well played. And it wasn’t as if he was keen to play her romantic interest, either. She was cold and serious and sharp; the fact that he still thought about her eyes when his mind wandered was another matter entirely.

It was only when he glanced up from his food again that he realised his brother was waiting for him to speak. “I see.”

“You wouldn’t happen to share similar concerns, would you?” Tyrion raised his eyebrows.

“If people wanted realism they’d watch a documentary.”

“That’s what I said.” Tyrion took a triumphant swig of his wine. “And just to put her mind at ease, I told her how talented you think she is.”

Jaime choked on his food. “Why?” His eyes watered as he tried to clear his throat.

Tyrion grinned. “Because you do think she’s talented, even if you like to downplay it to her face. A ‘not bad’ from you is as good as a marriage proposal.”

Jaime barked a laugh as he got to his feet, carrying his empty plate over to the sink. “Let’s not get carried away.”

He left Tyrion at their kitchen table and went back to his room, pulling the door closed behind him. His script lay abandoned on the bedside table. He sunk onto the edge of his bed and picked it up, flipping through the pages until he found his name and hers, printed in alternation. He squinted at the stage directions at the end of the scene and ran his finger slowly under the words as he followed them.

_Spencer gingerly rests her hand over Roberts’. He looks at it, looks at her, unsure of the touch but even less willing to pull away._

Tyrion hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the writers wanted to put them together. He could almost imagine Brienne Tarth reading the words for herself, her cheeks beginning to flush red in indignation as she took them in. _That_ scene weeks ago had been bad enough. He hadn’t complained about it, of course, because he was a fucking _professional_ ; he could handle a little intimacy with a woman even if she loathed him the air that he breathed. Not that it had been anything real. Not at all. She’d just taken him by surprise with the intensity she’d pulled from somewhere. It had thrown him for a moment, put him on edge for the rest of the scene. He’d be ready for this, though.

He had until the end of the week to prepare himself, to teach himself not to tense at the feel of her hand on his arm, to stop his heart skittering in his chest when she inevitably looked at him with those eyes. They were just so _blue_. And there was something about her, the way she kept up with him without ever missing a beat, how, as much as he hated to admit it, she matched him perfectly on set. But she was just another woman, just another love interest. That was all she was.

He just had to find a way to convince himself of that.

*

Brienne could still feel the warmth of his skin under her hand even after Oberyn had called a wrap on the day’s filming. The small mercy of her character’s sudden exit had given her a reprieve from the weight of those green eyes, if only for a few minutes at a time. They’d reset, and she’d rested her hand on his again, and with every prolonged look she’d traced a new detail of his face. The flecked gold in his eyes. The faintest hint of a scar on his temple. The stubble that followed his jawline and reached under his chin. By the end of the day she knew his face as well as her own.

He’d been unnervingly subdued when he’d arrived on set that afternoon. He’d flashed his smirk in her direction more as an obligation than anything. He hadn’t even made a single snide remark about leaving the emotion to him, or how she should just ‘give it her best shot’ and not worry about it. She’d waited, her brain whirring ready to fire back comments as needed; he’d been nothing but civil to her.

She waved Podrick away at the set door and crossed the lot to her trailer in record time. She sunk into her tattered sofa seat, leaning her head back into the cushions, closing her eyes as she basked in the silence. A moment away from everybody else, that was all she needed.

She had a blissful ten minutes of peace before there was a determined knocking at her trailer door.

“I don’t need anything, Podrick!” She sighed, scrubbing a hand down the side of her face.

The knocking came again, more insistent than before.

Brienne forced herself back to her feet. Had he forgotten something? He never usually came back after she’d said goodnight to him; he was astoundingly oblivious at the best of times, but he knew she never stayed on set much later than him once filming was finished.

“Podrick,” she pulled the door of her trailer open again, “I don’t need- oh.” She broke off as she took in the man in front of her.

Jaime Lannister gave a crooked smile, raising the bottle of wine and the two glasses in his hand for her consideration. “Not your assistant, I’m afraid.”

“I can see that.” She eyed him carefully. “Can I help you with something?”

“I brought wine.” He waved the bottle at her again. “Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you liked it!
> 
> Next chapter coming soon!


	5. V. Much Ado About Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne furrowed her brow. “Are you alright?”
> 
> “Me? Fine.” He popped the cork on the wine and filled the glasses. “Why?”
> 
> “You’re being civil.” She took the glass he handed her and leant against the counter, watching as he made himself comfortable on her couch. He snorted a laugh.
> 
> “When am I not civil?”
> 
> “Would you like a list?”
> 
> Jaime shows up at Brienne's trailer suggesting a truce, for the good of the show. Brienne is unconvinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos and commented since I last posted! I'm really enjoying writing this fic, and I'm so so glad people are enjoying reading it! 
> 
> I know I only just posted chapter 4 but I was really looking forward to writing this chapter so I just went for it immediately. I hope you like it!

V. Much Ado About Something

Brienne gaped. She stared down at Jaime Lannister with her hands on either side of the doorway, mind whirring as she searched for a suitable response. He was still grinning at her, still holding that bottle of wine up as an offering, the fingers of his left hand twined around the stems of two wine glasses. They were fancier than any of the plastic crockery catering had to offer. Where had he found them? Did he just keep crystalware in his trailer in case the need for it arose? If anyone was going to, she supposed, she shouldn’t be surprised that he did.  
  
Jaime cleared his throat. His grin was starting to border on a smirk as he shifted his weight, glancing up to regard the grey skies above them. “Are you going to let me in? Only, this jacket’s real leather and it looks like it’s about to rain.”  
  
“That sounds like poor planning on your part.” She frowned down at him. Jaime Lannister. At her trailer door.  
  
He nodded, his smirk giving way briefly to a grimace. “Probably. So… can I…”  
  
Reluctantly, Brienne stepped back from the doorway. Jaime’s grin widened as he made his way up the metal steps, handing the glasses to her once he reached the top. She set them down on the counter.  
  
“This is…” Jaime surveyed the inside of her trailer, “cosy.”  
  
“I’m sorry my trailer doesn’t live up to your standards of luxury, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne replied coldly. “I’m rather fond of it.”  
  
Jaime’s grin faltered. He rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head in contrition. “Of course. I didn’t mean to cause any offence. I only meant… I’m sure I could speak to my brother, sort something better out. If that would suit you.”  
  
Brienne furrowed her brow. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Me? Fine.” He popped the cork on the wine and filled the glasses. “Why?”  
  
“You’re being civil.” She took the glass he handed her and leant against the counter, watching as he made himself comfortable on her couch. He snorted a laugh.  
  
“When am I not civil?”  
  
“Would you like a list?”  
  
“I think you’ll find that, more often that not, it’s you who has a problem with me.” He raised an eyebrow at her over the top of his drink.  
  
“That’s not true at all.” Brienne swirled her own glass, watching the red of the wine rippling. “But if that’s what you think, why are you here? Why show up at my door with a bottle of wine when all either of us really wants to do is go home?”  
  
“It’s a peace offering.” Jaime drained half of his glass in one. “You know, for the good of the show. You clearly hate me-”  
  
“I wouldn’t waste my energy hating you,” she interjected. “I’m just not infatuated with you. In fact, I’m completely _indifferent_ to you; I know that might be hard for you to understand, someone who doesn’t faint in your presence.”  
  
“Well, you’re clearly _indifferent_ to me,” he rolled his eyes, “and I don’t want to risk that coming across on screen and ruining my brother’s show. Not now that we’re supposed to be completely in love.”  
  
“Our _characters_ are in love,” Brienne corrected. “And I’m perfectly capable of pretending to care about you. You were the one acting off on set today.”  
  
“I wasn’t-” he broke off suddenly. He sighed, running the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Ms. Tarth. I’m offering an olive branch. You’re sharp and you can act at least half well; there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be able to tolerate each other. Just like every other love interest they’ve thrown at me. Those other women never hated me, so I can’t be that bad.”  
  
“So love interests for you are just a long line of women you have to tolerate?” Brienne quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“Yes!” Jaime beamed. He paused. “I mean, no. Look, Ms. Tarth-”  
  
“Brienne.”  
  
“Brienne.” She didn’t think she’d ever heard him call her by her first name, not since the first night they’d met, at least. “People like to talk. They’ll take any opportunity to turn what they see in front of them into what they _want_ to see in front of them. They’ll take you hating me-  
  
“I don’t _hate_ you-”  
  
“As some sort of Beatrice and Benedick thing. They’re the main characters in-  
  
“Much Ado About Nothing, I know. You’re not the only person to ever have been in Shakespeare.”  
  
“Then you know.” He grinned. “But civility won’t mean anything to them. My brother will finally leave me alone and people will see that we really don’t care about each other in the slightest.”  
  
“And you think you’re a good enough actor to be civil to me in company?”  
  
“I know I am. Are you?”  
  
“If your brother’s to be trusted, you apparently think I am.” Brienne gave a hint of a smile.  
  
Jaime scoffed. “Tyrion likes to cause trouble.”  
  
Brienne hummed. She took a sip of her wine and set the glass down again, sneaking a look at the label covering the bottle. She was hardly a vintner, but she didn’t doubt it cost more than any wine she’d bought in her life. And Jaime Lannister had brought it to share with her. Margaery would burst if she found out.  
  
“So,” Jaime prompted, “do you agree?”  
  
“That we should be nice to each other so people don’t think we like each other?” She reiterated.  
  
Jaime shrugged.  
  
“There’s nothing to make them think that there’s anything like _that_ between us anyway. They’ll think what they want to think.”  
  
Jaime was silent, contemplative. He downed the last of the wine in his glass and searched absently for somewhere to put it; he settled for placing it carefully next to his feet, propped up against the fabric of the couch. “Well, maybe we could be nice to each other anyway, if that’s something you’re capable of doing.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I already told you: I don’t want to make our scenes awkward and get Tyrion’s show cancelled. When I come to set you always look at me like I ran over your cat.”  
  
“No I _don’t_.” Brienne gritted her teeth, took a breath. “It’s not my fault you’re incapable of not being an ass.”  
  
“Oh really?” Jaime gave her a crooked grin, his eyes flashing. “I’m the one being the ass.”  
  
“Don’t pretend you care about this show,” she rolled her eyes. “You’re just breezing through it. I’ve heard you don’t even look at your script until the day of shooting, and even then you get your assistant to read the lines to you like it isn’t worth your time to read them yourself.”  
  
“Really?” Jaime watched her curiously. “I don’t care enough to put the effort in?”  
  
“You’re not denying it.” Brienne tried to hold onto the steel in her voice, but something about the way he looked at her filled her with doubt.  
  
Jaime let her words hang in the air for a moment before he answered, his voice calm and unwavering. “I’m dyslexic. Jeyne goes through my lines with me so I know I’ve got them right.”  
  
“Oh.” She could feel her cheeks beginning to pinken. He was still looking at her wordlessly, his grin more subdued than she’d ever seen it before. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”  
  
“You didn’t know because I learn my lines without complaining. I find a way to make it work and I do what I have to do. Because, regardless of what you might think, I care about this show and the people on it.”  
  
“I didn’t-”  
  
“I won’t keep you any longer.” He stood abruptly. He glanced around the room before he caught her eye, flashing her an empty smirk as an afterthought. “I’ll go and be an ass somewhere else. Goodnight, Ms. Tarth.” He opened the trailer door, screwing up his face at the falling rain.  
  
“Jaime.” She caught his arm, her fingers curling into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He looked at her hand, then found her face again. He smiled.  
  
“It’s fine. Forget I was here. I’ll see you on set.” He gently tugged his arm away; she let him. She watched as he pulled the collar of his jacket up to shield himself from the rain, weaving his way through the maze of trailers. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she realised: she’d never just called him Jaime before.

*

Brienne barely heard the voices buzzing from her television. Her dinner plate lay forgotten on the coffee table, a long-cold mug of tea beside it. She’d been trying to get Jaime Lannister’s face out of her head since she’d left the lot. That arrogance that had irritated her so many times before had disappeared entirely from his face, and she had _hated_ it. She’d hated how reserved he looked, how vulnerable the glimmer in his eyes had been even when he'd tried to fake his usual bravado. He’d been so quick to brush it aside, to smile and leave as if he’d never been there at all, but her mind wouldn't leave her alone. There was something about him she hadn't seen before, something more than the surface-level asshole he liked to be in her company. She’d known he could be different; she’d seen him with his fans that first day they'd filmed together, and she’d wondered if it was just another act for a different sort of audience, but now? She wasn’t as sure as she had been.

She chewed her lip and turned her phone over in her hands. She had to do something, or she’d have Jaime Lannister’s face on her mind all night, and she _really_ didn’t need that. She’d have to swallow her pride. But first, she had to send a text.

**Do you have Jaime Lannister’s number? Could I have it? B.**

A response buzzed back almost immediately.

**OMG. Why do you want it? Are you asking him out? Why haven’t you asked him for his number?**

Brienne bit back a sigh. She’d had a feeling Margaery would jump straight to that line of thought, but even the idea of it exhausted her.

**Not asking him out. Can I have it please?**

**:(**

Margaery sent back his number a minute later, alongside another prompting question about her intentions; Brienne saved the number and pretended she hadn’t seen the rest. She could do this. _You’re thirty-five years old_ , she berated herself, _you shouldn’t be afraid to text a guy. That’s all he is. He’s just a normal guy._

Brienne steeled herself. She tapped his number, stared at the blank screen, and, giving herself a single encouraging nod, she began to type.

**Hi, it’s Brienne. Margaery gave me your number. Just wanted to say that if you ever want to run lines, I’m usually free. Have a good night.**

She dropped her phone onto the seat beside her and tried not to watch it from the corner of her eye. She drank a mouthful of cold tea and grimaced, pushing the offending mug as far away from herself as she could manage.

The screen glowed at the edge of her vision. She forced herself to wait, drumming her fingers against the coffee table before reaching for it again.

**No busy social life? ;)**

For a moment, she regretted ever texting him at all. Nobody could say she hadn’t tried. She rolled her eyes, ready to put her phone down and forget about Jaime Lannister for the evening; the screen lit up again before she could.

**Doesn’t sound terrible. I might take you up on that. See you on set, Brienne.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this chapter, please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe! 
> 
> If you're on Tumblr, my username is the same there as it is here (lionheartedghost). Come and say hi!
> 
> Next chapter coming soon!


	6. VI. Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime fished his phone out of his pocket and found her name, balancing the script on his lap as he typed.  
>  **Want to run lines?**  
>  For the first time, he saw the dots that signified her replying. He wondered if she’d try and explain away the messages she’d ignored. Probably not.  
>  **We don’t have any new lines to run through.**  
>  Jaime grinned despite himself. **I’ll provide the script. Text me your address.**
> 
> Jaime finds out what his brother and the writers are planning for the midseason finale, and there's one person he thinks he should share it with. Brienne never thought she'd welcome Jaime Lannister into her home, but now they're sharing a bottle of wine on a Wednesday night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone leaving kudos, and to everyone who commented on the last chapter! Every single comment means so much to me and I cannot thank you enough. Also, some of you are starting to accurately guess at things coming soon, and I'm very impressed.
> 
> I loved writing this chapter. I really hope you enjoy reading it!

VI. Rehearsal  
  
“Have you looked at these comments?”  
  
Jaime raised an eyebrow, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You literally just saw me walk in. I haven’t looked at anything.”  
  
“Maybe you should.” Tyrion waved his phone in Jaime’s direction from his seat at the kitchen table, eyes not leaving the screen. “People have got a lot to say about you and Brienne.”  
  
“I told you before you shouldn’t read the YouTube comments.”  
  
“I’m not. This is Twitter.” Jaime rolled his eyes.  
  
It was already late Autumn. Tyrion had followed the Twitter hashtags religiously as each new episode aired, scoured the comments sections for any recurring gripes, any standout praise. He’d throw out any particularly complimentary ones he found over breakfast, enunciating usernames with a smirk as he exaggerated every word. _Jaime Lannister is perfect. Who said Jaime Lannister was allowed to look like that? I don’t know Jaime Lannister personally but I would die for him if he asked me to._ Jaime had stuck up his middle finger and pretended not to be listening.  
  
Episode seven had aired last night; or, as he’d taken to calling it in his head, ‘the one with the lingering stare’. He hadn’t watched it back. He remembered filming it well enough without seeing their faces on-screen to remind him of everything that had followed. Showing up at her trailer door with a bottle of wine, convincing himself he was only there to clear the air, to prove she meant nothing to him. And how well had that gone? She’d called him out for not learning his lines properly, and something had prevented him from shaking off her accusations. He’d wanted to tell her the truth. Wanted her to know how hard he worked. Then he’d upped and left, crossing the lot in the rain, barely noticing the way the droplets had marked the leather of his favourite jacket.  
  
He still had her number saved in his phone. He’d yet to take her up on her offer to run lines, but he liked to send her little messages from time to time.  
  
**Not bad today.**  
  
**Did your assistant ever work out your coffee order? I honestly thought you might throw up on our first day.**  
  
**Margaery Tyrell always looks like she might die when I look at you.**  
  
She never answered him. He knew she got them; he could see the timestamp appear under each message not long after he’d sent them, that little ‘read’ staring tauntingly back at him.  
  
“They’re going crazy over you two,” Tyrion grinned.  
  
“We didn’t even do anything.” Since _that_ scene they hadn’t filmed much in the way of establishing a romance. Giving it a chance to settle with the audience, Tyrion had said, which was fair enough. There were more looks, warm smiles, even Brienne’s character tutting at him as she brushed crumbs off his sleeve. Little things.  
  
“And they still loved it. They love you both individually and they love you even more together.”  
  
“Great.” Jaime flashed a smile at his brother and crossed the room to the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug.  
  
“It’s good news for the midseason finale.” Tyrion scrolled absently, his grin widening as he scanned through praise after praise.  
  
Jaime frowned. “I thought the midseason finale script wasn’t out yet.”  
  
“It’s not for you. Producers get all the perks, dear brother.” Tyrion smirked. “Oh, it’s a good one. Big for the two of you.”  
  
“You have a copy.” Jaime watched his brother carefully. “Here?”  
  
“For my eyes only.”  
  
“Mm.” Jaime nodded. He took a sip of coffee and set his mug down. “But we both have our father’s eyes, so really-”  
  
“Jaime-”  
  
“I’ll see it eventually anyway.” Jaime brushed past Tyrion and ducked into his brother’s room, searching until he caught sight of the paper on the desk. He grabbed it, leafing through until he reached the final few pages and found his character’s name alternating with Brienne’s. He sank onto the edge of the bed and narrowed his eyes, willing the letters to stay still. He ran his finger underneath the words, one at a time.

_The blinds are drawn in Roberts’ office. The lamplight is low. Roberts is at his desk, working through the paperwork from their investigation. It’s late; he thinks he’s the last one in the office. He isn’t quite._  
  
_Spencer knocks at his door and pushes it open. She hovers in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, closing the door behind her. Roberts looks up, gets out of his seat, comes round to the front of his desk and leans against the edge as he watches her._  
  
Spencer:  
  
You could’ve died today.  
  
Roberts:  
  
You’d never let that happen.  
  
Spencer:  
  
It should never have happened at all.  
  
Roberts:  
  
Are you mad at me for almost getting shot?  
  
Spencer:  
  
Mad? I’m furious. Do you have any sense of self-preservation?  
  
_Spencer closes the gap between them. She stands in front of Roberts, who is still leaning against his desk; he has to tilt his head back to meet her eyes. Their faces get closer as she berates him._  
  
Roberts:  
  
Well, I’m still here, so I must have some. Why, would you miss me?  
  
_They’re even closer to each other now._  
  
Spencer:  
  
You’re unbelievable.  
  
_She stares at his lips. She moves the rest of the way, pausing just inches from his face. Roberts does the rest. He clutches the back of her head and presses his lips to hers with a hunger, as if he is a drowning man and she is the last air on earth. She reciprocates just as intensely. Her eyes are closed. They are lost in each other._  
  
_The screen goes black._

Jaime ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. It made sense to him now, at least, why Tyrion had wanted to wait for public opinion before jumping into filming, and the little smirks he’d been giving him made sense now too. Margaery Tyrell might actually combust from excitement. And what was Brienne going to think when she eventually read the script?

He paused. The script.

Jaime fished his phone out of his pocket and found her name, balancing the script on his lap as he typed.

**Want to run lines?**

For the first time, he saw the dots that signified her replying. He wondered if she’d try and explain away the messages she’d ignored. Probably not.

**We don’t have any new lines to run through.**

Jaime grinned despite himself. **I’ll provide the script. Text me your address.**

He half-expected her to ignore him, to leave him on read for the umpteenth time. His screen dimmed and the dots appeared and disappeared a dozen times over, but finally his phone buzzed. She’d sent it.

Jaime tucked the script under his arm as he left Tyrion’s room. His brother was still sat at the table. He watched suspiciously as Jaime grabbed his jacket. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“With my script?”

“Really, Tyrion, you should know how to share by your age.” Jaime grinned.

“Jaime-”

“Do you want us to learn the lines or not?”

“Us?” Tyrion repeated. A knowing smirk spread across his face. “Oh, _Brienne_.”

“Goodbye Tyrion.”

“I won’t wait up.”

*

Brienne tried not to start at the sound of a car pulling to a stop in front of her house, the glow of its headlights shining through the curtains. A thud as a car door shut. Footsteps on her front path.

Someone rapping their knuckles against her door.

Brienne took her time getting to her feet. She meandered to the doorway, pausing to brush dust off the coffee table with her sleeve. She didn’t know if he’d be brazen enough to comment on something like that in her home, but it was better to cover off as many bases as possible and save herself from that ridiculous smirk.

Jaime was raising his hand to knock again when she opened the door at last. He grinned at her, waving the script under his arm in her direction as a greeting. “Brienne. Good evening.”

“Jaime.” She scrutinised him; he smiled back expectantly. Stifling a sigh, she took a step back. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” He handed her the script as he stepped past her, beaming in fascination as he took in her living room. “This is nice. Very homey. Tyrion prefers the whole modern marble aesthetic; he’d never let us go for fabric.”

“What’s this?” Brienne ignored him, frowning down at the script in her hand. “Is this the midseason finale?”

“Tyrion had a preview copy. Producer bonus.”

“I guessed from the watermark. Does he know you took this?” She raised an eyebrow. Jaime stared back with wide eyes.

“What are you implying, Ms. Tarth? You think I discovered my brother had a script, took it and ran?”

Brienne tilted her head to the side.

“Well, you’re wrong. I didn’t run.” He grinned as he made himself comfortable on her couch. “He doesn’t care really. I thought you’d want to read our scenes, get a heads up.”

Brienne thumbed the edges of the pages thoughtfully. A heads up? What did he know that she didn’t? She wanted to pretend he wasn’t there at all, to flip through the pages there and then, but somehow she forced herself to be polite. “Would you like a drink? I’ve got wine. Nothing as fancy as the bottle you had, but it all tastes the same to me.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Jaime shrugged. “You might want to bring the whole bottle over, though.”

Brienne opened the bottle of red on her counter and dug out two glasses from the cabinet, setting all three on the coffee table in front of Jaime. He took the bottle immediately, filling both glasses well over halfway.

“My father would be ashamed at my pouring,” Jaime mused, “but it’s like you said: it all tastes the same anyway. Who cares how well it swirls.”

She stood uncomfortably for a moment; the space beside him on the couch made the most sense for her to take, but she’d hardly had the money to invest in luxurious furniture. They’d be almost knee to knee. But there was nowhere else she could sit that wouldn’t look like she was trying to get as far away from him as possible, so the couch it was. She sat carefully, setting the script down on her knees and taking a swig of wine.

“Are you planning on reading the whole thing?” Jaime sipped at his own wine.

“Didn’t you read the whole thing?”

“I skipped to the end, honestly. Tyrion kept giving me hints and it was driving me insane.”

He’d only read the final scene and that had been enough for him to drive to her house on a Wednesday night? Brienne drank a third of her glass in one and held it in her right hand while she flicked through the pages with her left.

She skipped back to the very first page, sipping carefully at her wine as her eyes skated over the lines. She paused, glancing across at him. “Do you want me to read it out loud?”

Something flickered across his face. She waited for him to fire back a sarcastic jibe, or maybe to tell her how patronising she sounded, but he did neither. He swallowed, looked away, picked up the bottle of wine and refilled her glass for her. “You don’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to show up at my door, but here we are.” Brienne cleared her throat and took another drink of wine. Beside her, Jaime drained his own glass and filled it again. Brienne glanced at the page in front of her, then looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Do you want to do your lines?”

He gave a crooked grin. “Maybe you should read through it yourself first.”

She started to read, taking another gulp of wine to quieten her nerves and spur her on. She could feel it spreading a warmth through her chest, a pleasant buzz settling in her head as she read out the stage directions. She pointed to herself when her character spoke, turned her finger on him when his replied, keeping up a steady rhythm. He listened, his chin resting on his hand as he watched her attentively. When his glass wasn’t raised to his lips he mouthed his lines back to himself, eyes narrowed in concentration.

At the end of each scene she stopped to sip her drink, and as the bottom of the glass became visible she tipped it towards Jaime for him to obligingly top it up again. He topped off his own at a similar pace.

It was another glass of wine later when she finally reached the scene that had brought him to her door in the first place.

“Their faces get closer as she berates him,” she read. Her brows began to knit together. Was this about to… His line, then her line. Two last words from her. She trailed off without realising, switching from reading the words aloud to hearing them echo in her head as she reached the last stage directions. _He clutches the back of her head and presses his lips to hers with a hunger, as if he is a drowning man and she is the last air on earth. She reciprocates just as intensely. Her eyes are closed. They are lost in each other._

She heard rather than saw Jaime pouring more wine into her glass. She was too dumbfounded to wave him away.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” he agreed. He lifted his glass to his lips again, and she couldn’t remember how many times he’d filled it. Was that his third glass? His fourth? He’d known what was coming, what she was about to read beside him, and he’d chosen to get as drunk as possible in as short a time as he could.

“So soon?” She managed. She reread the lines, trying not to trip over those last few sentences.

“Tyrion says the world loves us,” he smirked. “They want to jump on that while there’s interest.”

They were going to have to kiss. Not the sweet pecks she knew from Shakespeare plays at local theatres, not the meaningless displays he might have known from his roles in those action movies, but a proper, passionate, _desperate_ kiss. Jaime had read that scene in his brother’s preview script, and his first thought had been to come to her.

“Why are you here, Jaime?” She asked, setting her wine glass down on the coffee table as gently as she could.

He smiled in polite confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t need to come here. I would’ve got the script soon enough anyway. Why did you feel like you had to show up at my door and let me read it now?”

Jaime turned in his seat. He searched the lines of her face, lingering on her eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He dropped his gaze to his hands for a moment, putting his own wine down before finding her face again. “Would you rather I hadn’t come?”

“I didn’t say that.” The words tumbled out before she’d even consciously thought of them. She felt her cheeks redden; Jaime gave a hesitant grin. “I only mean… of course I don’t mind you being here. I wouldn’t have given you my address if it wasn’t… I said I’d run lines with you.”

“You did.” Jaime was close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath, gentle and sweet and earthy all at once. An eyelash clung delicately to his cheekbone.

“Don’t move,” Brienne said quietly, “you’ve got…” She reached out her hand, stroking her thumb against his cheek. The eyelash came away; she brushed it onto her fingertips and held it out for him to see. “Make a wish.”

He leant forward and kissed her.

His hand came around to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. She pressed her hand to the back of his neck and held on, the eyelash forgotten.

His lips were soft. She remembered that day on set, weeks ago, when they’d been so close that she’d found herself drawn to them, take after take, wondering absently what they would feel like. Now she knew.

The hair at the base of his neck tickled her hand. That was soft too; she’d expected it to feel more bristly, expected more resistance as she curled her fingers into it, but it was nothing like she’d first thought. _He_ was nothing like she’d first thought. He had been nothing but arrogant and condescending, a co-star she would have to put up with for the sake of being professional, but now he was on her couch and their faces fit perfectly together and their lips were _still_ touching and-

She pulled away. He blinked in response, dazed, as if he had just woken up from a dream. He stared at her, his lips still slightly parted.

“We…” Brienne shook her head. “What was that?”

Jaime bit back a smile. “Rehearsal.” He leant towards her, his breath teasing against her lips. He moved to kiss her again; she almost let him.

“You’re drunk,” Brienne murmured. She glanced across at the forgotten bottle of wine; it was as good as empty. “ _I’m_ drunk. We shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll regret it in the morning.”

He was still staring at her lips. “I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Will you?”

She bit her tongue, waiting until he met her eyes at last. Would she? “Jaime, I-”

“You’re right.” He got to his feet suddenly, placing a hand on the arm of the couch as he swayed. “You’re right. I’ll go.”

“You can’t drive like this. You’d get yourself killed.”

Jaime gave an uneven smirk. ‘Would you miss me?”

Brienne snorted a dismissive laugh. “You can sleep on my couch. I’ll find you some spare sheets-”

“No need.” Jaime kicked off his boots. “I’ll be fine.”

Brienne nodded. She clasped her hands awkwardly in front of her, glancing round the room for… she wasn’t sure what. When she looked back at Jaime, he was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. He caught her eye again and grinned. Cheeks reddening, she tore her gaze away from his chest. “I’ll leave you to it then. Thanks for, um, bringing the script over. Bathroom’s down the hall on the right. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” His voice followed her as she swept from the room, blushing to the roots of her hair. It wasn’t until she reached her room and shut the door firmly behind her that she took a breath. She sank onto her bed, focused on the feel of the covers beneath her fingers, and tried not to think about Jaime Lannister half-naked in her living room. Even trying with all her might, it wasn’t nearly enough to make her forget how his mouth had felt pressed to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr under the same username (lionheartedghost); come and say hi! I quite often post previews of upcoming chapters as I'm working on them. 
> 
> Next chapter coming soon!


	7. VII. No Comment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’d expected him to sneak out before she woke up, no trace that he’d been there at all apart from his empty glass on her coffee table and the indentations of his body pressed into her couch. She hadn’t expected him to stick around long enough to make her breakfast. She hadn’t expected to see him rifling through her cabinets with his back to her, making pancakes on her stovetop with a frying pan she’d forgotten she owned.  
> She definitely hadn’t expected him to be in his underwear. 
> 
> It's the morning after that kiss, and the last thing Brienne expects to find in her kitchen is Jaime Lannister making pancakes half-naked. The events of the night before come back to bite them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone leaving kudos and comments on this fic. I appreciate every single one.
> 
> Things heated up in chapter six. Here's the morning after. Enjoy!

VII. No Comment

Brienne woke to the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. She stretched, running a hand absently through her unruly hair as she sat up. Her head was aching with a buzz she hadn’t felt since her late twenties, and for a moment she couldn’t remember why her thoughts were full of fog. She hadn’t been out drinking. She’d come straight home after they’d wrapped on set. She’d cooked a quiet dinner and eaten it in front of the television, and then she’d got a text and-  
  
Oh God.  
  
It all came flooding back. She’d split a bottle of red wine with Jaime Lannister. He’d been too drunk to drive home so she’d insisted he take the couch. Come to think of it, was he still there? But in between those two little events, after she’d put down her wine glass and before she’d left him unbuttoning his shirt in her living room… had it happened? Maybe everything had just been an alcohol-fuelled dream. That made more sense than considering the possibility that Jaime Lannister had kissed her last night. That she’d kissed him back, too.  
  
Brienne resisted the urge to bury her face back into the pillow. She was an adult. They’d both been drunk out of their minds. Last night would absolutely never have happened had they both been sober, and in the bright light of morning they both knew that. She never would have kissed him back otherwise. Never. Not a chance.  
  
She was still running the words over and over in her head as she dressed, forcing herself to accept them as truth. _You never would have kissed him if he hadn’t kissed you first. You never would have kissed him back without the wine. He never would have kissed you._  
  
She’d almost convinced herself that her words were fact as she ducked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She stared at herself in the mirror, tucking down a strand of hair that stuck stubbornly up, and asserted the thought once more. But it faded suddenly, drowned out by the memory of last night. _You’ll regret it in the morning,_ she’d told him. He’d stared at her lips and answered with a voice more certain than she’d ever heard from him. _I won’t._ She had insisted he would, and he had turned it back on her without hesitation. _Will you?_  
  
She could hear clattering sounds emanating from her kitchen as she made her way along the hall. Honestly, she was surprised. She’d expected him to sneak out before she woke up, no trace that he’d been there at all apart from his empty glass on her coffee table and the indentations of his body pressed into her couch. She hadn’t expected him to stick around long enough to make her breakfast. She hadn’t expected to see him rifling through her cabinets with his back to her, making pancakes on her stovetop with a frying pan she’d forgotten she owned.  
  
She definitely hadn’t expected him to be in his underwear.  
  
Brienne cleared her throat. Jaime threw a grin at her over his shoulder. “I was starting to wonder if you were ever getting up. Good morning.”  
  
“It’s barely eight. We don’t have to be at the lot for hours.”  
  
Jaime shrugged. “Early bird, and all that. Do you want pancakes?”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Jaime slid the contents of the frying pan onto a plate and crinkled his eyes at her. “I would’ve thought that was obvious, given that I just told you. Pancakes. I’m making them.”  
  
“I can see that.” Brienne pressed her lips together. “Why?”  
  
“To thank you for your gracious hospitality.”  
  
“Did you know you aren’t…” She trailed off.  
  
“Aren’t what?”  
  
She waved a hand at him in explanation. Jaime looked down at himself; he gave a smirk so crooked she had to bite her tongue. “If it makes it easier for you to tear your eyes away from me, I’ll put pants on. Help yourself to food.”  
  
Brienne accepted his offer, focusing her attention on searching her cabinets for syrup so that she wouldn’t feel compelled to watch him pull on his jeans. She sat at the plastic table in her kitchen, barely big enough for two people to sit at comfortably, and averted her eyes. She cut out a neat triangle of pancake and chewed it thoughtfully. “These are good.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” He retook his place at the stovetop and started on a batch of pancakes for himself; he’d neglected to put his shirt back on. Brienne tried to keep her eyes from drifting to the muscles in his back, the smooth skin close enough for her to touch. She shook her head to rid herself of the thought. She shouldn’t think like that. She _couldn’t_ think like that.  
  
“Jaime,” she said carefully as he drew out the chair opposite her.  
  
He set his plate down and took a seat, glancing across at her with a guarded smile. “Mm?”  
  
“I…” Brienne pushed a wedge of pancakes around her plate. “Last night…”  
  
“Last night,” Jaime agreed. “What about it?”  
  
“I’m… I won’t say anything to anyone. They don’t need to know. We can go back to treating each other with polite indifference and nobody needs to know anything happened. We drank too much, we weren’t thinking, we didn’t mean for anything to happen-”  
  
“Right,” Jaime interrupted, flashing his signature smirk across the table. “It didn’t mean anything. If I’m honest, Brienne, I barely remember getting here last night, never mind whatever happened after that.”  
  
Brienne ignored the sinking feeling in her chest. “Me neither,” she said quickly, mustering up her own dismissive smile.  
  
“I’ll get out of your way after breakfast. Tyrion probably thinks I’m dead. He’ll have recast me before we get to set.” He snorted a laugh and combed a hand through his hair; it was still flat on one side from where he’d slept on it, ruffled and unkempt on the top of his head. Brienne smiled, but she couldn’t help the sudden pulse of fear at the mere suggestion of someone replacing him. Someone else’s eyes looking into hers. Someone else’s lips-  
  
“Okay. It’s up to you.” The food suddenly tasted dry in her mouth. She forced herself to take another bite, compressing what remained with the underside of her fork.  
  
She waved away his offer to wash the dishes, taking his plate away from him and dumping it unceremoniously into the sink. Jaime brushed by her as he got up from the table; she closed her eyes and willed herself not to shiver.  
  
Shirt rebuttoned, jacket shrugged on, and Tyrion’s script tucked under his arm once more, Brienne watched from her front door as Jaime grinned a goodbye. “I’ll see you on set later. Reshoots, right?”  
  
“Nothing new,” she said. “No new lines to learn.”  
  
“Not yet anyway,” he tapped at the script he was holding with a smirk. “They’ll never know what hit’em. Goodbye, Brienne.”  
  
She couldn’t bring herself to say his name. She raised a hand in a feeble imitation of a wave, letting it fall back to her side as he walked up her front path and climbed into the front seat of his car. She wondered absently what her neighbours had thought that morning on their way to work, reversing their second-hand Toyotas past an unfamiliar black Audi, so pristine that she didn’t doubt she’d be able to see her face reflected in the bodywork.  
  
He glanced across at her as he started the engine. He gave a brief smile, ducked his head as if trying to evade her scrutiny, and pulled away from the curb. She watched until he was out of sight.

*

Brienne tried to ignore it at first, but it had been an hour since she’d arrived on set and it was starting to bother her. Podrick had been the first person she’d seen. He’d handed her a hot cup of coffee (and he’d _finally_ got her order at least halfway right, so she’d cut her losses on that front and taken it) and he’d given her the same awkward smile he always gave her, but there was a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite read. She’d passed a handful of extras on her way from her trailer to set, and they’d paused in their conversation and pretended, albeit poorly, not to be looking at her. She’d tried not to be unnerved by the indecipherable hissing of their whispers. She’d arrived on set just in time to find her mark, but as final adjustments were made to the cameras, she could feel dozens of eyes on her. Not just on her. On Jaime, too. The only person not looking at her like she had something stuck to her face.

“What are they looking at?” She’d murmured. He’d shrugged and glanced around, but Oberyn had called action before Jaime could give her a reply. He didn’t seem to know himself, regardless.

She made a beeline for Margaery as soon as they wrapped for the day. Margaery beamed, throwing her arms around her in a brief embrace, and for a moment Brienne wondered if she’d imagined every odd look she’d been given. Paranoia. That was all it was. Just because she felt like what had happened between her and Jaime was written across her face, plain for anyone to see, didn’t mean it actually was.

“Brienne!” Margaery’s eyes were shining. Brienne felt herself relax as Margaery drew back.

Margaery’s smiled twitched. Brienne’s heart caught in her throat. She hadn’t imagined it at all.

“Why is everyone looking at me like I forgot to get dressed this morning?” Brienne bit her lip. “What’s going on?”

“I…” Margaery’s eyes drifted across to Jaime. Tyrion had come to set to observe, and now the two Lannister brothers were walking off-set without so much as a second glance at anyone around them, apparently lost in discussion. “It’s…”

“Tell me,” Brienne steeled herself. “Whatever it is, please, just tell me.”

Margaery pulled her phone out of her pocket and started typing. “It’s better if I just show you. Are you sure you want to do this here?”

“Yes.” The foreboding made it difficult to breathe, but she straightened nonetheless, trying to conceal the tension building from the centre of her chest to the tips of her fingers.

Margaery nodded carefully and tipped her phone screen towards Brienne. “This gossip site, The Spider’s Web, posted these pictures. A lot of the other gossip outlets got wind of them and ran stories and… well, you can see for yourself. Brienne, I’m so sorry.”

Brienne didn’t answer. She was frozen, transfixed by the grainy photos on the screen, taken surreptitiously by someone in low light. Last night.

Jaime Lannister’s silhouette framed by the light from her front door. Another picture, him turned to the side, his face in profile, hers visible above his shoulder. Another picture, him stepping inside her house as she closed the door behind him.

Brienne scrolled down through article headline after article headline.  
  
**_Hollywood heartthrob Jaime Lannister pays nighttime visit to newbie co-star!_  
**

**‘Crowns’ _stars’ sexual tension isn’t limited to the screen!_**   
  
**_You don’t need to be a detective to see what’s happening here!_**  
  
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“It’ll go away,” Margaery insisted as she took her phone back. “They’ll get tired of it. People will forget.”

People wouldn’t forget. Even if they started to lose interest, the mid-season finale would air and they’d be right back on it again.

“Don’t look at it as anything serious,” Margaery gave her best reassuring smile. “The producers will probably thank you, anyway. It’s great publicity for the show.”

The show.

Words she’d pushed to the back of her mind came flooding back. _His_ words from her trailer weeks ago.

_You’re clearly indifferent to me. I don’t want to risk that coming across on screen and ruining my brother’s show._

_It’s a peace offering. You know, for the good of the show._

For the good of the show.

Brienne broke away from Margaery, blood thrumming through her veins so loudly she barely heard Margaery calling after her. She crossed the set, throwing the side door open and letting it slam behind her as she burst through it. The Lannister brothers, not twenty feet ahead of her, stopped and turned at the sound.

“Jaime!” The logical part of her knew she shouldn’t do this here, not with other crew members milling around, not with Jaime’s own _brother_ right there, but she could feel herself almost humming with anger. “Did you do this?”

“Brienne,” he smiled pleasantly, seemingly oblivious to her fury. “Did I do what?”

“The pictures.” She bit her tongue, curling her fingers into her palms as she tried to calm her breathing. “The pictures of you at my door. The stories about us. Was it you? Did you organise this?”

Tyrion looked between them and raised his hands placatingly. “I’ll leave you both alone.”

Jaime didn’t seem any more aware of his brother walking away than he had of Brienne’s initial accusation. “They posted pictures?”

“Did you do this as a press stunt?” She couldn’t help her voice rising, even as she tried to steady it. “Did you set this all up?”

Jaime caught sight of a gaggle of watching crew members and grimaced. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else.” He took her arm and tugged her behind a row of trailers; she tore herself away from his grip and wheeled on him again.

“Everything last night, it was all a set-up, wasn’t it? That’s why you showed up at my door with that script, that’s why you-” she inhaled sharply. “It was all about the press, right? Just a stunt for the show?”

“No!” He furrowed his brow, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, and all she could see was him sat at her kitchen table trying to tame his bedhead and _God_ -“I didn’t set this up. Maybe someone followed me, I don’t know.”

“And now they’re writing all these articles about us like we’re secret lovers or something and-”

“The press sees what they want to see,” he interrupted. “Not that it means anything, because you’re not interested in me at all.”

“I’m not.” Brienne crossed her arms over her chest.

“Good.” She’d never seen him so serious. His mouth was set in a hard line. His eyes flickered away from her for a moment, his jaw clenching, before he met her glare again. He took a step closer, then another, until he was close enough that she had to quell the sudden urge to reach out and touch him. “I didn’t set this up.” His voice was so low she hardly heard him; the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “I would never do that to you.”

“Jaime.” He had turned on his heel and followed after his brother before she could think of the words to say to him. His name lingered in the air, a plea and an apology and a need for reassurance all in one. Her heart still thrummed and her ears still buzzed from the sound of his voice.

Margaery was waiting by the side door when she finally made her way back out from behind the trailers. Margaery gave a careful smile, walked over to meet her, and took her hand. “Are you okay?”

“You heard that?”

Margaery didn’t answer. Brienne resisted the urge to hold her head in her hands. Great. That was great.

“Listen, don’t even think about him tonight,” Margaery pressed. “I’m coming over. We’ll order take-out. It’ll be great.”

“Margaery…”

“It’ll be _great_. Okay?”

Brienne sighed in resignation. “Fine.”

Margaery beamed. “We’ll have the best time. Who needs Jaime Lannister?”

*

Jaime pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Below him, the city passed by in a silent procession of lights, whites and oranges flickering against the night.

“Are you going to talk to me?” Tyrion had sat silently on their couch for the best part of the last hour, watching, waiting for Jaime to say something. He’d been sorely disappointed. “What happened with Brienne?”

If you asked her? Nothing, apparently. _We drank too much, we weren’t thinking, we didn’t mean for anything to happen_. She’d practically fallen over herself trying to tell him how much she’d regretted ever letting him kiss her. And what could he say? That he didn’t really regret it? That even now, foggy as most of the previous evening was in his mind, he was still replaying that kiss, crystal clear, on repeat? She’d wanted to forget it and he’d said that was what he wanted too, because he was a gentleman first and a fucking good actor second.

But then she’d cornered him at the lot, accused him of faking it for the cameras for the sake of a couple of gossip sites talking about their show for ten minutes, and she had been _furious_. She’d thought he’d do that. She’d thought he was capable of sinking so low, of using her like that…

So what if she wasn’t interested in him? Maybe he wasn’t that interested in her anyway. She’d been so insistent that everything that had happened last night was down to the wine, and maybe she had a point. He just needed distance. A change of scenery. And alcohol, a lot of alcohol, nowhere near her. He’d probably kiss the first woman who looked at him. He wouldn’t even remember who Brienne Tarth _was_.

Jaime moved away from the window and retrieved his jacket from the seat beside Tyrion. His brother raised an eyebrow. “Where are you going now?”

“Out.”

“To Brienne’s?”

Jaime scoffed. “I’m going to find a club and get drunk out of my mind. Want to come?”

Tyrion regarded him cautiously. “I think I’ll pass. Jaime, maybe you-”

“Suit yourself.” Jaime turned up the collar of his jacket, smirked at his brother over his shoulder, and pulled the door to their apartment closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapter coming soon! Coming up in chapter 8: Jaime heads to a nightclub to prove to himself how much he doesn't care about Brienne. Spoiler: he's lying to himself. He cares about her. A LOT.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr under the same username (lionheartedghost) and I post previews of upcoming chapters as I'm working on them. Come and say hi!


	8. VIII. Make It Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d sipped tentatively at the whiskey for something to do, scanning the room for someone, anyone to take his mind off _her_. God, how was he supposed to prove how not in love with Brienne Tarth he was if she wouldn’t get out of his head? He’d caught sight of a tall woman not long ago, blonde hair shining silver in the strobe lighting, and his heart had leapt into his mouth. She had turned, and it hadn’t been her, and he’d actually been _disappointed_. What was _wrong_ with him?
> 
> Jaime tries to prove to himself that he doesn't care about Brienne. Brienne tries to convince herself that she doesn't care about Jaime. Neither is successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's followed this story so far, and to everyone leaving kudos and comments. They all mean so so much to me and I am forever grateful for your encouragement!
> 
> I struggled writing this chapter, but I finally got through it. Here it is! I hope you enjoy it!

VIII. Make It Real  
  
He hadn’t been to a club in months, and it had been years since he’d shown up at one alone. There was something not nearly as enjoyable about cramming yourself into a dimly lit, suffocatingly hot room without the distraction of an entourage pressing at your back, and, truth be told, Jaime was miserable. Never mind the obnoxiously evident lack of company; he’d never shown up at a club this _sober_. He was uncomfortably aware of how sticky the walls were, and he could smell God knew how many different drinks and thickly-sprayed deodorants and weirdly sweet chemicals from vapes. But it didn’t matter. He’d get drunk soon enough, charm a girl or two, and none of it would bother him anymore.  
  
That was what he’d told himself nearly two hours ago.  
  
Jaime sat on the edge of a leather couch in a corner booth, glass in hand. It was still his first drink. He’d sipped tentatively at the whiskey for something to do, scanning the room for someone, anyone to take his mind off _her_. God, how was he supposed to prove how not in love with Brienne Tarth he was if she wouldn’t get out of his head? He’d caught sight of a tall woman not long ago, blonde hair shining silver in the strobe lighting, and his heart had leapt into his mouth. She had turned, and it hadn’t been her, and he’d actually been _disappointed_. What was _wrong_ with him?  
  
“Drinking alone?” Jaime looked up. The girl stood in front of him was maybe in her mid-twenties, dark hair brushed over one shoulder, her face half-hidden in shadow. He grinned at her.  
  
“I was. Are you here to save me from my pathetic loneliness?”  
  
She sat down on the couch next to him, so close she was practically on his lap as she set her drink down on the table. She placed an easy hand on his knee. “Maybe I am. Don’t you do the saving yourself though, in those movies?”  
  
He laughed. “I’m willing to try a little role reversal.”  
  
The girl gave a coy smile. “Maybe I am too.” She lifted a hand to his face, brushing her fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Amy.” Amy leant close to him. Her breath tickled his skin.  
  
He scrutinised her through the darkness. He could smell her perfume mingled in the air with the scent of alcohol. Her nose almost touched his as she moved closer. He searched her face as the lights flashed, illuminated one moment and hidden in shadow the next.  
  
In the next burst of light, blue eyes looked back at him.  
  
Jaime drew back.  
  
Amy frowned, her hand still lingering on his cheek. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Jaime swallowed. “Nothing’s wrong.” He forced a smile, trying to tear himself away from her eyes. Trying not to think of the blue eyes he’d tried so vehemently to forget all night. Amy’s eyes were pretty, the colour of a summer sky. They weren’t the deep sapphire blue that Brienne’s were, sparkling under the studio lights, looking at him with complete disinterest for who he was and what he’d done, judging him like he was just another man, just another person. Sometimes he’d catch her staring at him with a spark of curiosity in them, like she thought she saw a glimmer of something more to him, and-  
  
Jaime stood up abruptly, Amy’s hand falling away from his face. “I have to go.”  
  
Amy stood up and followed him across the floor. He didn’t look back at her, even as he heard her footsteps echoing on the steps behind him. He ducked his head as he burst through the open door; a chill in the late evening air rose to meet him.  
  
“Did I do something?” Amy followed after him still, her heels clacking against the concrete as she quickened her pace to keep up with him. He didn’t so much as look back at her as he replied.  
  
“Not at all. I just have to leave. Have a nice night.”  
  
Jaime pulled the collar of his jacket up, hunching his shoulders against the cold. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He’d left his car behind in favour of getting mind-numbingly drunk, only now he was annoyingly sober and stranded. He wished he’d had the forethought to call a cab before fleeing that underwhelming club like a man on the run.  
  
It was only when he stopped to wave down a taxi that he noticed Amy’s footsteps had faded away. He couldn’t bring himself to care that he might’ve offended her, or that she might go straight to Twitter or some other ridiculous site to inform the world of how unbelievably _rude_ he was. Who cared? Bright lights illuminated the concrete at his feet, and as Jaime climbed into the back of the cab, it was all he could do to focus every ounce of his concentration on _not_ thinking about the one person he begrudgingly wished was beside him.  
  


*

  
Brienne leafed through her script with gritted teeth. She hadn’t spoken to Jaime since last week, hadn’t so much as looked at him when it wasn’t a necessary part of the scene. She’d come close to texting him the day after she’d accused him of pulling a publicity stunt, when she couldn’t get the look of hurt in his eyes out of her mind, not at home, not in her trailer, not as she wandered the aisles of the convenience store two blocks from her house. But then, as she’d skirted her fingers over the glossy covers of magazines, she’d paused. She’d picked up the issue in front of her, tilting the picture in the fluorescent light, and any guilt she’d felt towards him had faded immediately.

She wasn’t sure why she’d brought the magazine with her to set. It stared up at her now from the seat on the couch beside her. She hadn’t even opened it. She didn’t need to, not when he was the cover image. A grainy shot of him apparently in a rush to leave a club, a beautiful woman following on his heels, both seemingly unaware that they were being photographed at all. Maybe they were. Or maybe Jaime just didn’t care who the media thought he was with.

Brienne didn’t care. Of course she didn’t. Why would she? It wasn’t like anything had happened between them that night, wasn’t like there was anything to miss if he’d decided to busy himself with this stranger. They weren’t _together_. Someone like her and someone like him? That sort of thing didn’t happen outside of TV shows. And speaking of which.

Brienne glanced at her lines again. It was unnecessary; they’d been imprinted on her brain since that night he’d shown up at her front door, since he’d sat beside her on the couch as she’d read the script. And now they’d have to do it for real, the two of them in front of the camera and the God knew how many crew members watching them. How had the script worded it, their kiss? _As if he is a drowning man and she is the last air on earth._ Great. That was great.

Her eyes found the magazine cover one last time as she got to her feet. _We’re nothing_ , she reminded herself, pulling the trailer door closed behind her. _Polite indifference off-camera. Out-act him on camera._

It was unnerving how few people there were on set. She’d grown used to the bustle of extras milling around as they set up the shot, Margaery rushing over to greet her, the familiar faces of the rest of the main cast dotted here and there. But there was none of that now. Of course there wouldn’t be. She and Jaime were the only ones in this scene, the only ones under the scrutiny of the camera.

The lights were already dimmed. The set was ready. And, tucked away just behind the main camera, Jaime had his head bowed in conversation with his brother. Brienne swallowed. She found her mark, just to the side of the door she was supposed to enter through, and shifted her weight uncomfortably. _Just get through the day. You can do this._

She tried not to catch his eye as he walked towards her to take his mark, but she couldn’t help it. His gaze didn’t leave her face as he passed by her, stopping briefly to give her a curt nod. She raised her chin in reply. She set her jaw, searching for something in his expression to betray what he was thinking, but it was unreadable. Neutral. She could have been a stranger in his eyes, and maybe that was all she was to him now. He’d probably rolled out of that girl’s bed that morning, the one from the magazine cover, made her breakfast, stopped to kiss her before he left for set-

_Stop it_ , she chided herself. _You sound jealous. You’re_ not _jealous_.

“Okay, people, let’s get to it.” Oberyn clapped his hands together over his head, shuffling back in his seat as the production crew found their places. Tyrion settled into a chair beside him. Brienne focused her attention on the assistant waiting to cue her in, his index finger raised in her direction as he waited. She heard Oberyn clear his throat, his chair legs scraping against the floor as he shifted again.“And… action!”

She couldn’t see Jaime from this side of the door. She could imagine him sat there, hunched over the desk, his features cast in low light, the image of him so clear in her head it felt real. The thought of him blurred into a memory. His face inches from hers. Disbelief in his eyes. Affront in his voice as he insisted he hadn’t set up whoever had taken the pictures of the two of them that night. The feel of his breath on her skin-

The assistant waved a hand at her. Brienne started, bowed her head in brief apology, and knocked at the door in front of her. She pushed it open, stepped through, looked across at Jaime. His head was bowed over the papers on the desk, a pen held absently in one hand. He was waiting for her, she remembered, waiting for her to close the door. But God, she’d dragged out this scene already, she’d screwed it up before they’d even started.

“Sorry,” she glanced over at Oberyn. His brow was furrowed incredulously, his head canted ever so slightly to one side. “Sorry. I’ll go again.” She stepped back through the door, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling as Jaime made a sound somewhere between a tut and a scoff.

“Cut,” Oberyn called. “Reset.”

The assistant watched her carefully, his eyes narrowed in confusion. She quirked her lips into a brief smile, straightened, and took a breath.

“And…” Oberyn surveyed the set again, “action!”

Brienne stepped up to knock on the door the second the assistant cued her in. She stepped through and shut it behind her, biting down on her tongue as Jaime got to his feet. He moved round to sit on the edge of the desk, folding his arms over his chest as he looked up at her.

“You could’ve died today.”

He gave a half shrug. “You’d never let that happen.”

“It should never have happened at all.”

“Are you mad at me for almost getting shot?”

“Cut!” Oberyn ran a hand through his hair, throwing his head back to direct a frustrated exhale at the ceiling. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Brienne turned to face him. She’d been word perfect, they both had. She knew the scene well enough that she could envision the script as clearly as if it had been in her hands.

“That!” Oberyn gesticulated wildly. “Why are arguably our two best actors suddenly so fucking emotionally stilted? Do you think you can both remember what feelings are? Make it convincing?”

“Are you saying we can’t act?” Jaime raised his eyebrows.

“It looks like you can’t right now! The whole fucking country’s been going crazy for whatever it is between you two for weeks and suddenly neither of you knows how to act like a human being?”

“There isn’t anything between us,” Brienne interjected.

“Because that’s what matters right now,” Jaime rolled his eyes. “But don’t worry, Ms. Tarth, I’m sure I could call up the hoards of paparazzi I apparently have at my disposal and get them to make us into something people will believe.”

“And maybe if you need some help with the acting side of things, Mr. Lannister, you can just pretend you’re doing this scene with that girl from the club,” she fired back. Jaime narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Okay, okay,” Tyrion stood, raising his hands in front of him as if he were approaching wild animals. He shot a wary grin over his shoulder at Oberyn. “You wanted emotion, now you’ve got it. Let’s just reset again and let them do their jobs, alright?”

Oberyn paused for a minute. Then, with a resigned shake of the head, he nodded. “You heard him. Reset.”

Jaime was still glaring at her with an intensity fierce enough to set her blood boiling. She bit down hard on her tongue as she turned away from him, every fibre of her being on edge as she returned to her mark. She barely heard the sound of the crew resetting over the rush of blood in her ears. The assistant was watching her again, his previous irritation replaced with a sudden nervousness as she curled her fingers into fists at her sides.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” Oberyn ground his teeth together. “Action!”

Brienne rapped at the door and pushed her way through it, still quietly seething as she closed it firmly behind her. She watched Jaime step around the desk, come to rest in front of her, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“You could’ve died today.” The words were quiet, restrained. She stared at the green of his eyes, searching out the flecked gold that shone when his face caught the studio lights just so.

“You’d never let that happen,” he replied. The fingers of his left hand gripped the edge of the desk as if they were the only thing tethering him to reality.

“It should never have happened at all.”

“Are you mad at me for almost getting shot?” He raised his chin indignantly, and Brienne felt the anger in her veins begin to prickle. She knew that look from countless interactions off-camera, that infuriating need to be condescending, something so intrinsically linked with his need to one-up her that he apparently couldn’t refrain from it even when acting.

“Mad?” Brienne gave a bark of irritated laughter, moving towards him. “I’m furious! Do you have any sense of self-preservation?”

She was looming over him now, so close that he had to tip his head back to meet her glare, and there was a glint of something in his eyes that made her heart race.

“Well, I’m still here, so I must have some.” Jaime lowered his voice, swallowed. The fingers of his left hand twitched. “Why? Would you miss me?”

His face was so close to hers that their noses almost touched. There was a little grey in the stubble along his jaw she’d never noticed before. Brienne bit her tongue. “You’re unbelievable.”

She was supposed to lean in towards his lips. That was what the stage directions had said, that she met him halfway and he closed the gap, a hesitant pause between them as the words settled in the air. That wasn’t how it happened.

Jaime rose so suddenly that their heads almost knocked together. He found her lips, his left hand coming up to tangle in her hair just as it had the night he’d shown up at her door with the script, and she’d tried to convince herself it was just the wine that made her reciprocate the kiss but _God_ , who was she kidding? There wasn’t a drop of alcohol in her blood now as she clutched at his neck with one hand, rested her other hand on the desk for balance. She was furious at herself for accusing him of orchestrating those pictures, for telling him it never meant anything to her, for feeling jealous of that girl on the magazine cover, furious at _him_ for… God, she couldn’t remember, not with his lips still firmly on hers.

It took a while for her to notice the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“That’s more like it.” Oberyn gave a sly smile as he watched the two of them step away from each other. “That’s what we wanted. Good take. Let’s reset and roll again.”

Jaime was still watching her wordlessly. He licked his lips, his mouth slightly open as he looked at her, and it was all she could do to keep the tinge of pink from her cheeks. She turned her head abruptly, breaking his gaze. She pushed back through the door and returned to her mark without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Chapter nine is already written, so it'll be posted soon. To give you a little teaser, it's tentatively titled: 'Moment of Truth'.
> 
> I'm over on tumblr under the same username ( [lionheartedghost](http://lionheartedghost.tumblr.com/)); come and say hi!
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	9. IX. Moment of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you like me?” he repeated. He shivered, but somehow he didn’t think it was from the cold. “Because I…” He shook his head.   
> “Because you what?” She prompted. She took a step towards him, then another.   
> Jaime gave a humourless laugh. “Because I haven’t been able to get you out of my bloody mind for weeks.”
> 
> Jaime comes to a decision. It's the moment of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far! And thank you to those of you who have left kudos or commented on this fic. It means the world to me, and I am so so grateful for your support. 
> 
> I know I only just posted the last chapter, but I had this one written and really wanted to share it. 
> 
> The eagle-eyed amongst you might have noticed that this is the penultimate chapter. More on that in the end note, but for now, here's chapter IX. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter IX. Moment of Truth

Rain drummed against the roof of Jaime’s car, an incessant, tinny thudding that reverberated through him. It trickled down the windscreen, merging with the drops already clinging to the glass, the world before him turning into a frosted kaleidoscope of streetlight glow. The sky above had long since darkened; it had still been bright when he’d parked in front of his apartment building, but then the clouds had rolled in, and the light had begun to dim, and now the night had settled to a deep grey-blue.  
  
He could still feel her lips on his. He touched his thumb to them gently; they were still swollen even now, hours after they’d wrapped for the day, hours after he’d left the set. He hadn’t said a word to her after they’d cut. She hadn’t said a word to him either. He’d watched her march off the set with her chin held proudly aloft, and he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from her, not even when Tyrion had nudged him in the ribs.  
  
“That was… that was definitely something,” Tyrion had murmured. Jaime had hummed, shrugged a non-committal reply.  
  
“We were acting.”  
  
Tyrion had scoffed, patted his brother on the elbow. “Not even you’re that good, dear brother.”  
  
“She doesn’t like me.”  
  
“You think she’d have been that pissed off with you over those pictures if she didn’t like you?”  
  
God, those pictures. They’d been all but forgotten by the rest of the media, all too happy to move onto that picture of him leaving the club the other night with that girl following close behind him - what was her name? Abi? Amy? - but he couldn’t forget it. He didn’t think Brienne would be quick to, either.  
  
“That doesn’t mean she likes me. That means she doesn’t like feeling used.”  
  
Tyrion had chewed the inside of his lip, nodded resolutely to himself, and patted Jaime’s arm again. “You need to talk to her.”  
  
Jaime finally turned to look at his brother. He gave a resigned sigh and combed his fingers through his hair. “Why?”  
  
“You said you don’t think she likes you,” Tyrion said. He gave a careful smile. “You haven’t even tried to tell me you don’t like her. You’re not even denying it anymore.”  
  
Jaime had made his excuses and ducked off-set, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket as he headed back to his trailer to change.  
  
He’d driven back to his apartment not long after. He’d pulled into his parking space, switched off the engine, reached for the car door handle. The metal was cold beneath his fingers. He’d curled his hand around it.  
  
He’d paused. Pulled his hand back. Shifted in his seat.  
  
Tyrion would be home soon. Jaime could already imagine the look he’d give him over their kitchen counter, the look of pity for his lovesick brother, the mild disappointment at Jaime’s refusal to do anything about it. But surely it was better than showing up at her door again, wearing his heart on his sleeve for a woman who’d only ever made it clear how much she hated him, letting her rip his pride to pieces and having to go back to face Tyrion with his tail between his legs. Anything was better than that. Wasn’t it?  
  
_You think she’d have been that pissed off with you over those pictures if she didn’t like you?_ Tyrion had been so certain, but it was misguided, wasn’t it? Even the smartest man he knew could be wrong on occasion. Nobody could fault him for the occasional misstep here and there. Unless he _was_ right, and she did feel something for him, and what she’d said about that night not meaning anything had just been a way to shut him out before he could throw anything back in her face.  
  
God, it would be so much easier to think logically, to come to a rational decision, if he could only find a way to forget what it had felt like to kiss her.  
  
He hadn’t been able to. He could still feel her hair beneath his fingers, still see the blue of her eyes in his mind, fixed on him with a sincerity that made his chest hurt. He remembered the first night he’d met her, the night Tyrion had thrown that launch party for everyone to celebrate the show being picked up, back before Jaime had even been officially cast. He remembered her standing by the window, silhouetted against the illuminated cityscape before her. _Beautiful_ , he remembered himself saying. _The view. Beautiful, isn’t it?_ The view. God knew the view wasn’t what he’d been talking about. Not really.  
  
Jaime took a breath. Then, carefully, deliberately, he turned the keys in the ignition.

*

It was still raining as he drove the familiar roads to her house. The streets were near empty, the sidewalks absent of passersby. The engine rumbled low and steady; the windscreen wipers squeaked against the wet glass; water pooling on the surface of the road hissed underneath his tyres. Jaime heard none of it. The thoughts in his head were loud, but the thrumming of his own heartbeat in his ears was louder.

Her light was still on. He pulled over, switching off the engine with one determined twist of the key, and watched the glow from her window begin to blur as the rain fell more heavily.

Jaime closed his eyes. _Come on, Lannister. You’re a grown man. Stop hiding in your car like some high school kid with a crush and knock on her fucking door_.

Jaime pushed open his door before he could talk himself out of it. He stepped out into the rain and shut it behind him with a thud, the sound echoing along the empty street. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the time he’d reached her front path. His jeans clung to his legs, and his shirt, previously a solid blue, was now an abstract painting of dark and light.

There was a leak in her porch roof. He tried to avoid it as he rapped at her door, once, twice, three times in quick succession. He thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched up his shoulders against the biting weather. A droplet of water found its way down the back of his neck, snaking its way along his spine; Jaime shivered.

He knocked again barely half a minute later. The door shook in its frame, the jamb rattling as his knuckles made contact with the plastic veneer.

He took a step back from the door. He could see her through the glass, moving hesitantly towards him, squinting as if she didn’t quite believe it was him. She pulled open the door, one hand resting on the handle as she took in the sight of him, head canted to the left.

Jaime gave her a pleasant smile, something more akin to neighbours running into one another at the grocery store than a coworker showing up soaked to the bone on their scene partner’s doorstep late at night. God, maybe this was a mistake. No, he’d come too far to turn back now.

“Jaime? Are… are you okay?”

“Do you like me?” Never mind acting like a high school kid; he sounded like an actual child, passing notes in class with hand-scrawled tick boxes. ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no.’ But somehow, watching the way her face changed, the way the suspicion in her eyes became something softer, something more uncertain, any feelings of self-consciousness dissipated. He didn’t care if it made him look like an idiot, not anymore. Not if it got him a straight answer.

Brienne looked out into the night. For a moment, she considered the rain, yet to show any sign of stopping. She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Come in before you get sick.”

Jaime followed her inside. He watched her close the door, running his hand absently through his damp hair. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“What is this? What are you doing here?” The words weren’t as sharp as he’d anticipated. She was hesitant, pleading almost. There was nothing bitter in her expression; there was only something wary, guarded.

“Do you like me?” he repeated. He shivered, but somehow he didn’t think it was from the cold. “Because I…” He shook his head.

“Because you what?” She prompted. She took a step towards him, then another.

Jaime gave a humourless laugh. “Because I haven’t been able to get you out of my bloody mind for weeks.”

Brienne paused mid-breath.

“I promise you,” Jaime moved towards her then, barely an arm’s length away from her, “I had nothing to do with those pictures. I had no idea.”

Brienne swallowed, clenching her jaw. “What about that girl? The one from the cover photo?”

“I went to that club to distract myself from you. I left that girl behind because I couldn’t _not_ think about you. She gave up on following me when I wouldn’t stop and talk to her.”

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She stopped. He could practically see her mind whirring. She met his eyes and tried again. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you want that other girl? Why can’t you stop thinking about me? You hated me when we first met.”

“Brienne,” Jaime furrowed his brow. “You’re the only person who looks at me and sees _me_. You’ve never treated me any different to how you’d treat anyone else. I never hated you, but God, I was infuriated at how easily you could mess with my feelings. And honestly," his lips quirked into a small smile, “I’m never going to meet someone with more incredible eyes than you.”

Brienne’s cheeks reddened.

“It’s you,” he said. "It’s always been you.”

Brienne closed the space between them before he had the chance to do it himself. Her lips were on his and her fingers were curled into his still-damp hair, and he clutched at the back of her neck, brushing his thumb against her skin. She broke away suddenly.

“After that night,” she said, breathless, “you said it didn’t mean anything.”

“Because you wanted to forget about it.”

“I didn’t. I thought you would. I was saving you from any need you might feel to be chivalrous.”

“Saying it didn’t mean anything _was_ me being chivalrous.”

Brienne gave a huff of laughter before finding his lips again. The hand not in his hair tugged at the back of his jacket. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor at his feet.

“Aren’t you worried about the leather creasing?” She teased. He scoffed, kicking the jacket further away from him.

“I’m too busy to care about it right now.”

He wasn’t sure who lost their shirt first, him or her, but somehow both were pooled on her living room carpet, his boots kicked off beside them. He forced his hands away from her face to fumble with the buckle of his belt.

“Wait.” Brienne caught his wrist. She glanced down the hallway towards her bedroom, then looked to him. “Do you want to-”

He smirked. “I’ll let you lead the way, Ms. Tarth.”

She interlaced her fingers with his. He followed her along the hall, stopping to let her throw open the door to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway.

“You’re sure?” He asked.

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

Jaime grinned. With the hand not holding hers, he pushed the bedroom door closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos/a comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!
> 
> I have loved writing this fic and sharing it with you, and I really wanted it to end on a definitive note instead of me dragging it out and quietly abandoning it one day. There'll be one more chapter coming soon to round this fic off, so keep your eyes out for that!
> 
> I'm over on Tumblr under the same username ([lionheartedghost](http://lionheartedghost.tumblr.com)); come and say hi!
> 
> Final chapter coming soon!


	10. X. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery paused for a moment, regarding Brienne carefully. “You are happy, aren’t you?”  
> Brienne looked across at Jaime, who’d somehow found his way up onto the desk beside Tyrion. He caught her eye for a moment and grinned, the gold flecked in his eyes gleaming under the studio lights, and she smiled softly back.  
> “I am,” she’d said at last. “I really, really am.”
> 
> It's the end of the season, and the end of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's followed this fic, and to everyone leaving kudos and comments. I can't find the words to tell you how much it means to me. 
> 
> This is the last chapter of Bright Lights. I'm so grateful to you all for your support, and I have loved writing this fic and sharing it with you. Here's chapter ten. I hope you enjoy it!

X. Finale

Thirty-six. She was thirty-six years old, and their show had been renewed.  
  
They’d been on set, she remembered, their last day of filming, re-shooting scenes that needed to be changed, running through brief bursts of dialogue, finishing up shots in the bullpen of their fake precinct. She’d hardly noticed Tyrion duck out between takes to answer a call. None of them had.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Tyrion had breezed past the cameras and clambered up onto one of the desks, arms open wide like the bringer of judgment. Jaime had huffed a laugh beside her.  
  
“What’s he doing?” She’d whispered.  
  
“Whatever he wants,” Jaime had shrugged in response. “He always does.”  
  
“Magnificent job this season.” Tyrion raised his chin solemnly. “It’s been an honour to work alongside you all.”  
  
Brienne had felt her heart begin to sink.  
  
“The network called.” Tyrion patted the pocket holding his phone. “Some of you know better than others how cutthroat renewal season can be. We gave it our best. We did all we could.”  
  
Jaime had sighed quietly.  
  
“So,” Tyrion clasped his hands together, the set of his mouth beginning to quirk into a grin, “I’ll see you all back here in three months’ time, because we’re renewed for season two!”  
  
Brienne was sure she’d laughed in disbelief, but the sound was swallowed by the cheer that swept across set. The floor shook under the weight of stamping feet, extras abandoned their marks, Oberyn knocked over his chair in his haste to spring to his feet. She turned to Jaime, her cheeks already beginning to hurt from her smile, only beaming more as she caught sight of the spark in his eyes.  
  
“Congratulations, Ms. Tarth.” His voice was low, barely audible above the raucous, but she’d spent long enough looking at his lips over the past months to know how to read them.  
  
“And you, Mr. Lannister.” He leant in, kissing her briefly, brushing his thumb against her cheekbone.  
  
“You’ve both still got scenes to shoot.” Brienne pulled back with a start. Margaery stood at her elbow, a cat-like smirk crinkling her eyes as she looked between the two of them. “Don’t make me drag you away from each other. I’ll do it.”  
  
Jaime grinned back at her. “We’re keeping it professional. I promise you, this is tame, compared to-”  
  
“ _Jaime_.” Brienne raised her eyebrows as her cheeks began to redden. “Stop talking. Walk away.”  
  
“Fine,” Jaime smiled innocently. He bent to kiss her again swiftly, pulling away before she’d had a chance to register him there. He flashed a crooked grin at her and turned away, heading across the set to join his brother.  
  
Margaery reached up and wrapped her arms around Brienne’s neck. “Another season! Congratulations!”  
  
“Congratulations to you too,” Brienne returned the hug. Margaery released her, glancing after Jaime with a smile.  
  
“You got more out of this show than most of us.” She nudged Brienne in the ribs. “Remember how much you used to hate him?”  
  
“I didn’t _hate_ him,” Brienne rolled her eyes. “I just thought he was kind of an ass. Honestly, I _still_ think he’s kind of an ass, sometimes.”  
  
Margaery laughed and took Brienne’s arm. “I’m glad you’re together. With all that chemistry it would’ve been a disaster if you weren’t. You deserve to be happy.” Margaery paused for a moment, regarding Brienne carefully. “You are happy, aren’t you?”  
  
Brienne looked across at Jaime, who’d somehow found his way up onto the desk beside Tyrion. He caught her eye for a moment and grinned, the gold flecked in his eyes gleaming under the studio lights, and she smiled softly back.  
  
“I am,” she’d said at last. “I really, really am.”

*

Brienne knew she should probably be used to parties like this by now. She still didn’t recognise the music trickling from the speakers. She still didn’t quite know how she was supposed to stand in her clinging red dress. She still wasn’t really sure how to politely turn down the champagne servers kept offering her. At least this time around she recognised the faces dotted throughout Tyrion’s apartment.

She’d been here half a dozen times at least since Tyrion’s ‘we got greenlit’ party the year before. She’d split a bottle of wine with the Lannister brothers one evening; Jaime had cooked her dinner when she’d stayed one weekend Tyrion was out of town; she’d been back the handful of times Jaime had stopped by to pick up boxes of his things, ready to pile them into her car and move them to their newly-rented apartment. But it didn’t matter how many times she came to the top floor of the building: she never got used to that view.

The city glittered far into the distance. Dusk had painted the evening sky with pinks and blues, and bright lights had begun to twinkle as the sun’s glow faded. They crawled along highways, stood steady in windows, cast beams of white and orange across the ocean waves along the shore. The city breathed light, breathed _life_ , and even with the glass cool beneath her fingers, she felt she could reach out and hold that light in the palm of her hand. The world beckoned at her feet.

“Beautiful.” Brienne felt a smile tug at her lips as a familiar voice murmured in her ear. Arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and Jaime’s chin came to rest on her shoulder.

“It is,” she agreed with a hum, reaching for his hand and squeezing it.

“No,” he shook his head as best he could. “ _You_ are.”

She leant back into him, letting go of his hand to reach up and cup his cheek. His stubble had grown into a beard since they’d finished shooting for the summer and the bristles prickled her skin, but she didn’t mind.

“A whole season more of having to be in love with me,” he teased. “How are you going to manage it?”

“I’m sure I’ll find a way. What about you? Are you up to the challenge, Mr. Lannister?”

“You know, Ms. Tarth,” he mused, “someone once told me I wasn’t as talented an actor as I think I am.”

“I don’t think they meant it,” she bit back a laugh, “but I’m sure they had their reasons.”

“Well, either way, it’s a good thing I’m not just pretending, isn’t it?” He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck.

Brienne met his eye in the reflection in the glass. He grinned at her, crooked and charming and just a little bit arrogant, and she rolled her eyes fondly. A whole season more. And, if the fluttering of her heart and the warmth in her chest was anything to go by, it would last a lot longer than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so, so much for reading. It's been a lot of fun to write, and I miss it already.
> 
> I'm over on Tumblr under the same username ([lionheartedghost ](http://lionheartedghost.tumblr.com/)); come and say hi if you'd like to!
> 
> Thank you again for following this fic. I really hope you enjoyed Bright Lights as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a modern AU for GoT before but this was a lot of fun so I'll continue it if people like it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a kudos/comment/subscribe if you enjoyed it!


End file.
